


Heartbreak

by Elleh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Let's be real this is barely angsty, M/M, MatsuHana are in love with IwaOi, Minor Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Unrequited Love, and sappy af, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-16 12:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleh/pseuds/Elleh
Summary: Hanamaki Takahiro has been in love with his best friend for way too long. Now that said best friend is happily in love with someone else, the only thing Takahiro can do is find a way to cope. And if he does so with a stranger that happens to be said someone else's best friend in a bathroom stall in a random club… well, no one can blame him.This is the story of how Hanamaki and Matsukawa are in love with their best friends, meet when said best friends make a dinner-announcement and start a friendship to manage their heartaches.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started this because i wanted to write two specific smut scenes but then this shit got emotional real fast and my smutty ideas had no place in it anymore. that doesn't mean there's no sex scenes, because there are. it starts with a sex scene, so, be warned. 
> 
> i got this idea from a fanart i saw years ago and i couldn't find it again. if someone knows which i'm talking about, please send me the link so i can properly post it here <33
> 
> the fic is finished, so you can expect a chapter every saturday from now on.

Heartbreak should never, ever be wallowed in over techno music.

Add the three drinks that are already burning in his stomach, the flashing lights and the fact he’s spent four hours staring at what he’d thought to be the love of his life being the happiest in another’s man’s arms, and heartbreak feels like the welcoming party to Hell.

Takahiro takes a long sip from his drink, choking on the fire that ignites in his throat. His eyes are glued to the happy couple, bodies tangled moving with the beat of the music. Sweat glitters in their skins, and Takahiro growls before finishing the stupid drink.

“It almost feels like you wanna murder them,” someone yells near Takahiro’s ear.

The guy’s lucky the alcohol has turned Takahiro’s movements into a clumsy disaster, otherwise he’d have his face plastered to the bar. Takahiro shrugs, steps back and stares up ar the man’s calm eyes.

He knows him, barely. He’s the boyfriend’s best friend. Something-something-awa. The end of his name is awfully familiar to Oikawa’s. Another little jab to add to this amazing night.

“And who are you?” Takahiro asks, half pissed, half joking. He honestly doesn’t remember his name, and he’s not sure he wants to know it.

“Matsukawa Issei. Iwaizumi’s best friend,” Matsukawa answers, a pleasant smile in his lips, polite and chill. Takahiro wants to smack him on the face.

“Right.”

Matsukawa arches an eyebrow, lips pressed while Takahiro’s silence gets eaten by the deafening music. The club is filled to the brim, people everywhere getting their elbows and hands too close to Takahiro’s body for his liking. Matsukawa doesn’t seem bothered by it, nor by the obvious lack of conversation. He’s near enough for Takahiro’s side to be plastered to his chest.

“Did you need something?” Takahiro finally asks, cursing himself. He needs another drink, not someone who looks at him as if he were an open book.

“A chat.”

“Go look somewhere else, then. Not interested.” Takahiro turns, hand already up to catch the bartender’s attention, when Matsukawa’s mouth finds his ear again.

“Are you sure?”

It clicks, then. Takahiro halts, mouth open, hand still on the air. His heart is beating now as fast as the heavy drum of the music, his skin painfully aware of the heat of Matsukawa’s body. Fuck, it’s been so long since someone has hit on him —since he’d looked for it,— it has flown over his head.

The bartender comes. Takahiro manages to order something, although his mouth feels thick with cotton. He’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about how long it’s been since he’s had sex, any kind of physical connection with another human being that could be attached to physical pleasure. He’s thinking about the past year as if it were a movie that started the second he’d finally acknowledged his feelings. He’s thinking and thinking and thinking, aware of Matsukawa’s body still glued to his side, the ghost of his hand on his lower back; painfully sure the offer won’t stand for much longer if he doesn’t say anything, do anything.

The drink has barely brushed his fingers when Takahiro turns, ending face to face with Matsukawa. The man has an inch or so on him, forcing Takahiro to lean his head back to stare at him this close. Matsukawa’s expression is calm and neutral, smile still curving his lips but otherwise not showing any of his thoughts. Takahiro could reject him with all his rudeness and the man would probably shrug it off and leave.

Takahiro keeps his stare on Matsukawa’s when his tongue darts out of his mouth in search of the straw. He makes a show of sucking the drink, shifting slightly closer so now his whole side is touching Matsukawa’s.

Something dark covers the other man’s eyes. Takahiro pretends is the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks, ignoring the fact they are in a dark club, with flashing lights, with drunken people all around. Takahiro has seen in other people’s eyes what he wants to see enough times to know it never matches reality.

The straw falls off his lips, and Takahiro grins.

“Is the chat the only thing you’re still interested in?”

The way Matsukawa’s hand grips Takahiro’s hip is answer enough.

 

It isn’t classy, but Takahiro isn’t really looking for classy right now.

Matsukawa has him pinned against the stall’s door. The bathroom looks nasty and smells even worse. Someone on the next stall is probably getting high on coke, given the loud sniffling sound. There are laughs and music pumping around them. Takahiro has his hands pinned against the wall near his head while he’s been thoroughly kissed.

Kissed might be the wrong word. Devoured, maybe. Owned, for sure. Takahiro moans, forgetting the dirty bathroom and the people outside this four scribed walls. Matsukawa grinds against him, forcing his legs open first with his knee, and then with his hips. Takahiro’s only touching the floor with the tips of his feet, rocking against the sweet pressure of Matsukawa’s leg against his cock.

Takahiro has always thought this kind of business to be conducted differently. You know, a drag to a bathroom, a push to one’s head, knees on the dirty floor and cum all over one’s face once it’s over. He’d never really contemplated kisses to come into it, even less the lack of naked flesh.

Matsukawa changes the angle of his head and Takahiro’s thoughts vanish. His mouth might not be fucked, but Matsukawa’s tongue is nothing but demanding. Takahiro’s moans get louder and longer, the soft hold on his wrists and the total lack of control over the situation making the kiss as good as a cocksuck.

That brings a nice image to his mind. If Matsukawa kisses like that, Takahiro can only imagine how good the man’d be at giving head. Those intense lips brushing against his length, his exploring tongue licking every inch, his cheeks hollowing while he…

Matsukawa sucks on his tongue, and Takahiro whimpers against him, hips buckling forward. His fingers twitch, wanting to grab Matsukawa by the neck and pushing him even closer. He wants that mouth to eat him whole and then some. He wants that mouth to dry every piece of heartbreak still poisoning his blood.

As if reading his thoughts, Matsukawa’s mouth slows and, with a bite on his lower lip, finally stops.

Takahiro’s breathing heavily, eyes closed. He’s hyper aware of the hardness of his cock, of Matsukawa’s cock against it. Is this the moment for the hand on his head and the inevitable push to his knees? It’s not that Takahiro is against blowjobs, but for tonight it would be nice to be the one cared for.

What a stupid thought. Cared for? You don’t drag a stranger into a bathroom stall to be cared for. You do it for a quick fuck, Takahiro. Get your shit together.

“You alright?” Matsukawa mutters while nipping on Takahiro’s throat. The touch of his teeth sends shivers down his body, his cock throbbing with the soft pain.

“Yeah,” Takahiro manages, hoarsely. His lips feel swollen and used. “Is this all that’s gonna be happening?”

Matsukawa chuckles against his neck, Takahiro leaning his head back to give him more room and more skin to play with. Against his Adam’s apple, he says, “I don’t usually do this, you know?”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Takahiro gasps, biting down a moan. Matsukawa sucks on his neck, then licks the place Takahiro’s sure tomorrow will be a telling purple. “Fuck, it feels good.”

“I bet.” Matsukawa does it again, crotch tightly pressed to Takahiro’s. “I meant the ‘fuck strangers in bathrooms’, by the way.”

“Again, you could’ve fooled me,” Takahiro repeats, but Matsukawa’s words ring true. The lack of pushing and pulling and rough manhandling kind of gives it away. “Why do it, then?”

“You looked like you needed it.”

Takahiro snorts, and then moans when Matsukawa’s mouth travels down and onto his collarbone. There’s a second in which Takahiro keeps himself pinned to the door, hands still up his head although Matsukawa’s are now roaming his body over his shirt. When his mouth finds a nipple and sucks through the fabric Takahiro arches his back, arms finally falling down and over Matsukawa’s head.

He registers the softness of his hair and the warmth of his skin before Matsukawa bites his nipple, and Takahiro moans loud enough to be ashamed. He can feel Matsukawa’s smile against his chest.

“Really altruistic,” Takahiro manages to say, slowly realising the direction of Matsukawa’s fantastic mouth.

“There are some ulterior motives, believe me.”

“Oh, God, I hope so.”

Matsukawa laughs while pushing Takahiro’s shirt out of his pants and up his belly. He takes the message and holds it up, Matsukawa already on his knees, mouth on Takahiro’s navel. The sight of his dark head, flushed cheeks, darting tongue dizzies him. It could be the drinks, but Takahiro could swear he’s high on sex rather than alcohol.

The sound of his belt and zipper being undone gets lost in the low beating of the music, but Takahiro’s not sure he’d have been able to hear it even if they’d been in the most silent place on Earth. There’s a rush in his ears, probably the total of his blood running fast towards his cock, now free, standing hard and wet in front of Matsukawa’s face.

Takahiro feels his heart in his throat, but it’s probably all over his cock.

Matsukawa stares up for a second, a grin that’s everything but controlled taking over his mouth before he leans forward and dips Takahiro’s cock into its warmth. Takahiro can’t help the soft yell. Matsukawa’s eyes never leave his while he bobs his head, taking Takahiro inside his mouth bit by bit. His hands are spread on Takahiro’s hip bones, pressing his thumbs in their hollows. Takahiro has never truly realised how sensitive the stupid things are until now, but he has little time to ponder on it because Matsukawa has taken him almost to the hilt and thoughts are not something Takahiro can manage any longer.

He has never been deep-throated before. Hell, he can only recall three times when he’d received a blowjob, and they weren’t as memorable as this stranger’s is. Takahiro bites his lip and whines low in his chest, thanking whatever dumb strike of luck that has sent this man his way.

Matsukawa hums low in his throat, and Takahiro’s head hits the door. Seeing the way his cock fills Matsukawa’s mouth is doing something strange to his belly, and Takahiro’s not sure he’s gonna survive the blowjob as it is. He’s gasping for breath as soon as Matsukawa fastens his speed, letting Takahiro’s cock hit the back of his throat with not even a flinch.

“Shit, I’m gonna—”

Matsukawa takes Takahiro’s cock off his mouth and Takahiro moans low with disappointment before Matsukawa’s fingers press his hip bones, calling for his attention.

When he looks down, the sight of the man almost makes his knees buckle. His mouth looks ravished, flush tainting his cheeks an adorable red. The way his eyes gleam could make Takahiro come right now.

“Grab my hair and pull,” Matsukawa orders, hoarse. Takahiro nods and brings his hand into Matsukawa’s head, tangling his fingers with the dark locks. Matsukawa’s eyelids fall, mouth open. He looks like debauchery itself.

“Go on, then. Make me finish.”

Takahiro shouldn’t have talked so highly, for at the sound of his words Matsukawa leans forward and takes Takahiro whole in a single thrust. Takahiro arches, pushing his cock further in, choking Matsukawa. He tries to lessen his grip, but Matsukawa moans around him and pulls back and forward again. Takahiro’s finger tightens, and Matsukawa’s hips buckle, copying the way Takahiro’s are moving against his face.

“Fuck, this is so hot. You are so hot. Goddammit,” Takahiro mutters letting his cock drive into Matsukawa’s mouth with less care, now, enjoying the sounds surrounding him, loving the red taint of pleasure now covering Matsukawa’s features. “I’m gonna come.”

Matsukawa hums his agreement, mouth slack and spit all over his chin. His eyes close the faster Takahiro’s hips move, taking it all, demanding even more. Takahiro can’t take his eyes away from him, the sight of his hand commanding his head, of his cock being so perfectly swallowed. He suddenly understands the appeal of taking a hot stranger into a bathroom and pushing him to his knees. The door rattles at his back, Matsukawa’s fingers dig into his skin, and Takahiro fucks his mouth three more times before a wave of pleasure rolls from his head to his lower back, from his belly to his knees. He groans loudly when he finally comes, shooting into Matsukawa’s throat.

Takahiro’s trembling when his hips finally stop, all his weight against the door. Matsukawa has his head bowed, hands still on Takahiro’s hips. Takahiro fears he’s been too rough. His hand is loose on Matsukawa’s head.

“I—”

Matsukawa stares up, licking his lips. Takahiro can see his erection still pressed against his pants, a wet spot where its tip is leaking. The words dry in Takahiro’s mouth. Shit, he looks even better now than he did while Takahiro was fucking his mouth.

“Want me to return the favor?”

Matsukawa shakes his head imperceptibly and closes his eyes.

“Do you want me to do anything at all?”

Matsukawa opens his eyes at that and looks at Takahiro. There’s cum and dry spit on his chin, the swell of his lips a clear sign of the rough care Takahiro has given him. If he speaks he’ll probably sound as if his throat has been through some amazingly heavy feeding, and the thought sends jolts of pleasure down Takahiro’s back.

And yet, Matsukawa seems overly aware of what Takahiro’s question has tried to hide. Being sucked dry has obviously taken a toll in Takahiro’s ability to pretend.

“I won’t last long,” Matsukawa says in a raw voice, exactly how Takahiro’s imagined he’d sound after taking his cock the way he has.

“You want me or not?”

Matsukawa stares at him a second longer and then nods. Takahiro does his pants and then grabs Matsukawa’s hands to pull him up. Matsukawa’s staring at the floor, trembling slightly, when Takahiro pushes him against the wall, mouth on Matsukawa’s neck. The soft moan crosses from skin to skin, and Takahiro’s smiling widely by the time he undoes Matsukawa’s pants and fondles him.

“Fuck.”

“Mmmmh, fuck indeed,” Takahiro purrs, his fingers circling Matsukawa’s cock. He starts stroking him idly, enjoying the heavy feeling of him on his hand. Matsukawa closes his eyes and moans again.

“Faster.”

“I don’t think so,” Takahiro mouths against his artery, feeling the beating of his heart against his lips. Matsukawa whimpers softly, Takahiro changes the speed and the strength of his hold, and starts stroking him with intent. “God, you feel good.”

“I’m really close,” Matsukawa gasps with a frown, a plea and a complaint.

“You like sucking cock that much?” Takahiro’s grip tightens at that, making Matsukawa’s neck arch. He speeds his strokes, licking his neck, his jaw, his open lips. Matsukawa’s heaving, hands clutching Takahiro’s shoulders with desperation.

Matsukawa curses when Takahiro changes his pace once again, denying him his so wanted orgasm. Takahiro’s smile is teasing when it closes over Matsukawa’s lower lip.

“I’m not letting you come until you answer the question.”

“Fuck.”

“Uhh uh.”

They kiss shallowly, Takahiro keeping himself far enough to stop Matsukawa’s tongue from dipping into his mouth. He bites his lips, lets his own tongue draw their shape, sucks on his skin. Takahiro is suddenly in control, and oh boy, does he like it.

“Come on. You liked sucking me that much?”

“Yes. Shit, yes. Fuck, you felt amazing.” Takahiro rewards him with an open-mouthed, brain-shattering kiss, his hand changes its angle, jerking Matsukawa to his so needed orgasm. They are still kissing when Matsukawa’s body quivers a second before he unloads on Takahiro’s hand, his moan lost in Takahiro’s mouth.

They are both panting when Takahiro takes his hand away from Matsukawa’s cock, the hot cum in his hand more alluring than appalling. Takahiro looks at it, and then at the bathroom stall, and then back at Matsukawa, who has his head against the wall and his eyes closed.

“Thanks,” he says, suddenly awkward. “I— I needed that.”

Matsukawa’s debauched mouth twitches into a smug smile, but still he keeps his eyes closed.

“I know. My pleasure.” At that he lets his eyelids open slightly. “Literally.”

They are pressed chest to chest still, Takahiro’s hand sticky with Matsukawa’s drying spunk, his own probably swirling down Matsukawa’s throat at this very moment. He should be in cloud nine and about to float back to the party with unthinkable energy.

He swallows hard and lets his gaze fall onto Matsukawa’s neck, where he’d been biting his way around not even two minutes ago. He shouldn’t ask. God, Takahiro, don’t ask. Why spoil the best orgasm you’ve had in a year?

But Takahiro has already opened his mouth and the words are out before he realises he’s saying anything. “How did you know?”

_Fuck._

Matsukawa arches his eyebrows in a spectacle Takahiro can’t but be impressed by, even if the blush of embarrassment is already creeping up his neck.

“Forget it.”

“No, wait.” Matsukawa grabs his hips, thumbs once again in the hollow of their bones. Takahiro’s body stops, eyes darting everywhere but Matsukawa’s. “You mean, how did I know you needed a good sucking?”

“I hope you made that sound ruder than you intended.” Matsukawa grimaces at the steel in Takahiro’s voice. Takahiro inhales soundly. “But yes, that.”

“It sounded better in my head.” With a sigh, Matsukawa’s thumbs start caressing nimbly where they are still pressed, showing his nerves. Takahiro shouldn’t be feeling as good as he does with that stupid touch. “I guess… well, I thought I understood what you were going through.”

Takahiro frowns. “What does that mean? Through what? I haven’t… Oh.” Takahiro opens his eyes, panic erasing the little heat left in his body. He steps back and Matsukawa’s fingers loosen their grip. “You mean…? Oh, shit.”

“Wait, don’t fret. I’m not telling—”

“You _are_ Iwaizumi’s best friend,” Takahiro hisses, finger pointed at him accusingly.

“Yes,” Matsukawa says, dragging the word. “I’m still not telling anyone.”

“How could you not, I am in love with…” But the name gets stuck in his throat, throttling him. His hand starts trembling where it stands, pointing at Matsukawa. There’s an unexpected tenderness in Matsukawa’s hold when he takes that same hand and forces the knots that have become Takahiro’s fingers to untangle. “Oh, God.”

He’s trembling all over. The realisation of what tonight means finally waves over him, taking away with it the sweet relief of numbness that shock had brought with it. Takahiro is breathing in harshly, his heart beating everywhere, his eyes wet, his mouth dry. He wants to cry so bad his chest feels like a dam has broken into pieces.

“Shh, it’s okay. Come here.” Matsukawa’s arms are an earthy reminder, but as tight as they hug him, they can’t take the weight of his feelings away. Takahiro buries his nose on Matsukawa’s shoulder, hands slack at his sides. “This isn’t about me saying anything, is it.”

Takahiro nods once, shakes his head twice. He’s breathing in stutter breaths, the loud music and the sounds of the busy bathroom reaching him after long minutes of sweet oblivion. Without his brain’s consent, his arms raise slowly, and tentatively he hugs Matsukawa back.

The slow circles Matsukawa’s hand is drawing on his back finally sooth him. There’s warmth in the embrace, something different from the heat they just shared. The desperation in their pleasure still lingers, but Takahiro knows, somehow, the memory of the hug will stay longer.

“I won’t talk. I promise.”

“I don’t even know you. Why would I trust you?”

Matsukawa snickers. “You let me put your cock in my mouth, but you won’t trust me with this?”

“That’s different. That was just…” Now that Takahiro’s emotions are tuned down, Matsukawa’s meaning finally registers. “Wait. What do you mean you _understood_ ? How could you… Oh, my God.” Laughing now would be extremely rude, but also perfectly fitting. Somehow Takahiro manages to bite down the hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat, but barely. “You _understand_ , don’t you? You understand because _you_ are in love with Iwaizumi!”

Matsukawa’s sigh is answer enough. Takahiro can’t but laugh at the absurdity of them both.

 

Takahiro’s surprised Matsukawa agrees to go to an izakaya after the whole incident.

Matsukawa was clearly uncomfortable once Takahiro found out he’s in love with Iwaizumi, and he wasn’t especially happy with the fit of laughter that had overtaken Takahiro once he’d put it into words.

Takahiro can’t blame him. It was inevitable, given the way the night has unfold, but still. He’d have been pretty pissed too if the dude he just pity-sucked was laughing at my unrequited love.

They order their food and drinks and fall into an awkward silence as soon as the waitress leaves. Takahiro looks at Matsukawa, chin washed and lips almost as normal. No one can tell an hour ago Takahiro had been fucking that mouth with everything he has, and Matsukawa had taken it, and enjoyed the hell out of it.

It makes one think, really, why a man in love with his best friend, who’s happily in love with someone else, would go down on a man suffering from the same illness. Takahiro puts his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, shamelessly studying Matsukawa Issei and his neutral expression.

“Stop staring.”

“I really don’t get it.”

Matsukawa huffs. “Don’t get what?”

“Why’d you do it.” Matsukawa arches an eyebrow. “Do _me_ ,” Takahiro clarifies. “Suck me, I mean. I’d get it if I were the only heartbroken one here, but you could have gotten me on my knees and sucking you off to tomorrow without much effort, and we both know it.” Matsukawa shifts in his sit, eyes darting towards the open kitchen. “So, why? Why give it to me?”

“Because that’s what I felt like doing, okay? It’s not such a big deal.”

“Well, no. I wouldn’t say _big deal_ , it’s just weird.”

“Gee, thanks,” Matsukawa says, wry, crossing his arms over his chest. The shirt he’s wearing tightens around his arms and shoulders, emphasizing the width of them. The more Takahiro looks at him, the more he realises Matsukawa could have anyone he wants do anything he desires. Why he’s picked Takahiro, who’s clearly a mess when he’s emotionally intoxicated, is anyone’s guess.

“You’re not fooling me, just so you know.”

Matsukawa frowns at that, eyes still everywhere but Takahiro. “I’m not trying to fool you.”

Takahiro rolls his eyes. _Yeah, right_. “Then maybe you’re trying to fool yourself, but it’s still a pretty bad show, if you ask me.”

“No one asked,” he says, finally looking back.

Takahiro opens his mouth in faked offense, hand above his chest as if Matsukawa’s words have hit him right in the heart. Matsukawa shakes his head, but there’s a twitch on his lips. He uncrosses his arms and sighs so deep Takahiro’s pretty sure his lungs have lost a bit of skin in the process.

The waitress brings them their order, three dishes of food in front of Takahiro, a single bowl of edamame for Matsukawa. Apparently coming on someone’s hand in a dirty bathroom doesn’t turn one as ravenous as coming down someone’s throat.

“You want some?”

“I’m good,” Matsukawa says to his beer. Well, be it. If the man doesn’t want to vent out to Takahiro, that’s his deal. Takahiro owes him, after all. “So, how did you meet Oikawa? I wasn’t really listening when the stories were shared.”

Takahiro hadn’t been, either, too occupied finding the bottom of his bottle to listen to all of Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s friends congratulating the happy couple.

“We went to high school together and then uni, and then we applied to the same lab and got in together. Kind of a fated friendship, you know?” Takahiro says it lightly, but it feels everything but. Every word carries the heavy weight of his feelings, rotting in his insides since the first time he’d heard about Iwaizumi Hajime. “We are also volleyball players, and have been in the same team since first year.”

“And you’ve been in love with him since…?”

Takahiro’s chopsticks stop in midair. He knows there’s rage in his eyes when he stares up at Matsukawa. “A bit unfair you make me talk about mine, but won’t share yours, don’t you think?”

“I did blow you.”

The _fucker_.

“ _Fine_. I’m gonna play the game because, why the fuck not, this night could only end worse if a yakuza ninja attacks me and leaves me to die in the cold.”

There’s a slow blink before Matsukawa says, mildly, “It’s mid-september.”

Takahiro growls deep in his throat. “I wasn’t making light of the blowjob so suck it up and stop being offended.”

“I wasn’t.” But he was. Takahiro can see the tension lessen as soon as he says that, his pride hurting from too many wounds to be able to placate them all, he guesses. “Yakuza ninjas?”

“After tonight, I’ll believe anything.”

“That bad?”

Takahiro chews for a few seconds before answering. “The dinner was bad. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were worse. You were a surprise. I’ve never, ever had sex in a club. In fact, I’ve never had sex with a stranger before. Also? Probably the best blowjob to date. And,” he points at Matsukawa’s surprised gaze with the chopsticks, “I was surely not expecting the hot dude who went down on me to be in my same position, only on the other side.”

Matsukawa lets Takahiro’s words cook while Takahiro empties his plates. His stomach is full and content, and when he takes a sip of his beer, Matsukawa’s still looking down on the table, musing on it.

“I really want to hold onto the compliments,” Matsukawa finally says, voice small and contained. His features look calm, but there’s a nervous tick on his fingers. Takahiro can still feel their ghost touch on his hip bones, “but I can only see them. Together. So happy. And I want Iwaizumi to be happy. I should be content with that.” There’s a strangled noise coming from Matsukawa’s throat when he stares up, pain as clear in his eyes as if Takahiro were looking into a mirror. “But I can’t. I don’t know _how_ to be content when it hurts like this.”

Oh boy. It is _that_ bad, isn’t it. Takahiro should have guessed as much, when Matsukawa has seen a wounded guy when he’s as wounded himself and has pushed Takahiro’s pleasure before his. That amount of caring _has_ to hurt.

“Then don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t be content,” Takahiro says, pushing forward. “Wallow on the pain, let it soak you, live in it for a while. I’m guessing you haven’t told Iwaizumi, have you?” A dry shake. “And you aren’t planning on doing it.”

“What’s the point?”

“Release, I guess.” Takahiro shrugs. He has had this conversation enough times to know what the best, healthiest way to recovery is, but he isn’t planning on ruining his friendship with Oikawa because of his own mistakes, and he’s pretty sure Matsukawa is on the same boat. “If you express how you feel and get openly rejected you can move on, yadda yadda yadda.”

“That’s bullshit. I already know I’m rejected. They are moving _together_.” He says together as a doctor says _deadly and untreatable illness_. “Saying something now would only hurt our friendship.”

Takahiro’s nodding, agreeing wholeheartedly, when Matsukawa hits the table, startling him. “Stop nodding as if I were stupid!”

“Chill, man,” Takahiro says, hands up in a non-aggressive manner, “I agree with you. Tune it down a bit, will you? We are only talking about it.”

Matsukawa lets his head fall into his hands, groaning against his palms. The tips of his fingers are strikingly pale against his dark hair.

“I’ve never talked about it.”

Takahiro needs a second to gather the meaning. “With _no one_?” Matsukawa shakes his head. “What the hell. How long have you been in love with him?”

“Little bit more than two years.”

Takahiro’s world stops moving for a very long second. Hundreds of scenarios play in his head. He sees himself with Oikawa, sees the moment he realised that _oh, fuck, I’m in love with the idiot_. He sees the year of silent pinning unfolding itself, of whining over a beer and Kyoutani as only friendly shoulder, of Watari joining, of spilling his insides and being hurt but at least not alone. And then he sees it all again, but without his mouth wording his love and his pain and Iwaizumi coming into existence and himself, being sucked into a black hole of emptiness.

“Ah, Matsukawa,” he says with honest pity for the first time tonight. “That will kill you.”

“I know. It totally feels like it,” he mutters to his hands. The hunch of his shoulders speaks of sadness and loneliness, the weight of the world in the shape of Iwaizumi Hajime’s and Oikawa Tooru’s love.

“Take your face off your hands, will you?” Matsukawa shrugs and doesn't comply. “Have you eaten tonight?” Another shrug. Takahiro’s eyes narrow, starting to see more than he wants to. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Are you my mother?”

The joke hits Takahiro right in the heart, Oikawa’s voice now overwritten by Matsukawa’s. He’s totally serious when he says, a bit too dry, “No, I’m not. When was it?”

Matsukawa sighs and finally leans back, eyes red and watery. “I can’t really remember. I must have, because I’m still alive and all, but I don’t know.”

“You are fucking dramatic, you know that?”

Matsukawa frowns down on him, obviously unhappy with that statement. “I wouldn’t say _dramatic_. I am not dramatic. I’m just, uh, forgetful.”

“Full of bullshit is what you are.”

Matsukawa snickers, although tears are still gathered up in his eyes. Takahiro won’t mention them, but he sure as hell won’t ignore them while Matsukawa’s starving himself to death to keep them at bay.

“I’m ordering some toriyaki for you. If there’s something you want to eat or don’t like, now’s your time to speak up.”

Since Matsukawa says nothing, Takahiro presses the red button and orders for him.

He’s extremely pleased with himself when, by the end of the night, Matsukawa’s plates are lick-clean.

 

 

They cut the night short after that. Takahiro pays for them both, a sort of payback for the happy hour in the bathroom, and a sort of motherly feeling of taking care of a grown ass man who hasn’t eaten in days.

They share contact info when, at the izakaya’s door, they both realise their train stations are in opposite directions. It’s awkward. Takahiro can see Matsukawa’s struggle as if it were a movie playing in front of them. Takahiro wants to see him again, if anything else to make sure the man eats his three meals a day. He says, “Come on, give me your number and your email. I’ll write.” And Matsukawa nods and does as he’s said. The way he moves makes Takahiro think of robots learning to be human.

They part with a wave and a _good-bye_ and for the whole walk to the station, Takahiro thinks about the next time they’d be seeing each other. It’s not about the sex, he knows that. He doesn’t want to let sex come into play, because Takahiro’s not sure he can have sex with a man as broken as he is without getting more hurt than he already is. It’s more a want of cherishing a fellow heartbroken man. As if fixing someone else’s heart could fix Takahiro’s by proxy.

Takahiro is hangovered when he wakes up the next morning, by the copious amount of alcohol he drank the night before to quiet down the loud shattering of his heart, but even more so by the emotional rollercoaster of seeing Oikawa being all lovey-dovey with Iwaizumi.

The light is killing him, but before he takes a trip to the bathroom and then to his medical kit, Takahiro takes his phone and sends Matsukawa a text. Nothing fancy or even remotely as smart as he wants it to be. Takahiro isn’t expecting much as a reply, but at least he’s expecting one.

 

 

It shouldn’t hurt as much, when by the next Wednesday, Takahiro realises there will be no reply at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (⌯˃̶᷄ ﹏ ˂̶᷄⌯)ﾟ
> 
> (since i'm mostly gone from tumblr, feel free to come to [twitter](https://twitter.com/EllehlEtoile) and yell at me)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to all of you who commented and left kudos! hope you're enjoying this <3

“You’re cranky,” Oikawa says to the microscope.

Takahiro ignores him in favor of his own microscope, which he’s been looking at for at least ten minutes without really processing what he’s seeing. He _is_ cranky. And sad. Working with Oikawa isn’t the joy it used to be, and now he has to add to it the fact he can’t talk about Matsukawa either, the same way he will never be able to talk about his feelings for him.

Oikawa writes something down, changes the samples and looks into his microscope again. Takahiro sees all that on the periphery of his vision, when he should be focusing his full attention on his own samples.

“If you are not going to work, why don’t you cut it short and we go for an early dinner?”

Takahiro can’t help himself when he growls, “We meaning you, me _and_ that boyfriend of yours?”

Oikawa is a good enough friend to ignore the distaste in his tone. “Oh, no. Iwa-chan is having dinner with his friend Matsun. You remember Matsun?”

Of course he fucking remembers Matsun. He’s been remembering Matsun on his knees with his mouth full of cock since Sunday. He’s been remembering Matsun every fucking time he picks his phone and there’s no reply to his text.

Fucking Matsun.

Takahiro gives up on concentrating. He leans back and stretches his arms before muttering, “Yeah. Barely.”

“He’s been cranky too. What a coincidence.”

“Yeah, imagine people having bad weeks, huh.”

Oikawa looks at him over his glasses, silently saying everything he wants to say without the need of opening his mouth. Takahiro would fidget under his scrutiny if he didn’t feel as empty as he does. Shit, the five stages of heartbreak are worse than he expected. “Not everyone can have a perfect relationship to fill the empty holes of their lives.”

“I don’t have a perfect relationship, and I thought you were happy for me.”

_I am happy for you. For me? Not so much._

Takahiro sighs, hand atop his eyes. The movement seems to take away from Takahiro’s body all the tension that has kept him standing, and he collapses down on his stool. He feels like an ass, and yet, he can’t help himself when he says, “I’m also entitled to feel sad even if I’m happy for you.”

“But why are you sad?”

God, smarts have nothing on obliviousness.

Takahiro can’t say the truth, but somehow he doesn’t feel like lying either. So he makes do with a half-truth. “I guess I feel like I’m losing you to Iwaizumi.” The sting of that truth, man. Oikawa will take it as a _friends against boyfriends_ instead of a _boyfriend wannabe against actual boyfriend_ , but the pain is the same. “Which I get, you know? He’s your boyfriend,” _ping_ , “and you want to spend all your free time with him. It’s not as if we don’t see each other.” Takahiro smiles, tiredly, and adds, “I’m also a bit jealous,” _ping, ping!_ , “of your relationship. I’m not sure I will ever find someone the way you guys have.”

It’s all true, but Takahiro’s guilt isn’t fooled by the free interpretation he’s done of it. Oikawa frowns down on him, obviously worried, and before Takahiro sees him move, he’s surrounded by Oikawa Tooru, being pressed tightly against his chest.

Ah, it feels nice.

“Makki, I didn’t know you felt like this.” Takahiro shrugs. “And of course you will find someone. You are one of the best people I know.” _Not the best, though; not good enough for you_.

This self-deprecation, self-flagellation isn’t really doing it for him, but after his night with Matsukawa, Takahiro feels like he can’t stop. The damn bastard has given him his awful dark aura, and Takahiro can’t shake it off.

“We will have dinner tonight, and then I’ll make sure you get to know Iwaizumi. You are not losing a friend, Makki. You are gaining one.”

 _We’ll see_.

 

 

By the next Tuesday, Takahiro’s pretty sure the heartbreak is infected and it’s now poisoning his blood flow. He remembers once when a cut he got on vacation had gotten infected and he’d let it rot long enough to end up on the hospital, glued to an IV. It had been one of the worst, most painful experiences in his life.

It has nothing against this _torture_.

“I need help,” he says, forehead against the table. The beer he ordered ten minutes ago is still untouched. “Please, help me.”

“I’m a _medical_ doctor,” Kyoutani growls in answer, “not a psychologist.”

“I don’t care. Rip it off my chest, man. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

Kyoutani frowns, clearly not agreeing with that. The fact Takahiro’s heart is still in his chest is also proof of the fakeness of their friendship.

“I already told you what to do,” Kyoutani reminds him, taking a sip of his soda. He’s working in two hours. Long enough for him to end Takahiro’s misery through physical pain, not _emotional_. “I know why you won’t, but that only means you’ve chosen the long, hard way to recovery.”

“Fuck you and your stupid doctor-y words.”

Kyoutani rolls his eyes. “You talk to me. That’s good. Talk to Watari too. Fuck, befriend a stranger and sob on him the story of your life. You don’t want that shit to rot? Then put it out there.”

It makes sense. Takahiro knows that; he knows he’s been doing better because he has people he can talk about it with. The problem is he can’t share it with _every_ person he wants to share it with because, some times, one needs to protect the people one loves the most. Even if the cost is one’s own heart.

“It kills me I can’t talk to Oikawa about it,” he finally confesses, hands glued to the glass, warming the beer he’s not going to drink. It doesn’t make it better, hearing it out loud. It doesn’t take the weight away, but he does it anyway. “I know what you said. But even if I tell him how I feel, I won’t be able to _talk_ about it with him. It’s not as easy and simple-fact as you put it.”

“I know.” Kyoutani’s voice is softer, although the edge on it hasn’t faded. “You weren’t this bad before their dinner.”

Perceptive bastard. Takahiro ruminates about lying to him, but at the end of the day this is exactly why he’d called. “Something else happened.”

“With someone.”

“Yes,” Takahiro says through clenched teeth. “I met someone that night at the club. We…” A blush covers his cheeks. Kyoutani fidgets, uncomfortable, but he stays put like the good friend he is. “Anyway, I thought we connected, somehow. Apparently, we didn’t.”

“The amount of details you just left out is suspicious as fuck.”

“You want me to relate every sexual detail?” Takahiro says drily, knowing that’s not where Kyoutani’s getting at.

“Please don’t. I’d rather not have that in my mind while at work.”

Seeing as Kyoutani works on the ER Takahiro should be more offended by the implication. Instead, he lets his forehead fall against the wood again and moans loudly.

“It was Matsukawa. Remember Matsukawa?”

“Iwaizumi’s friend?”

“That one. He’s apparently…” Shit, Takahiro needs to share. Why would this stupid, unproductive loyalty to a man who hasn’t answered a simple text stop him now, of all times?

“In love with Iwaizumi?” Kyoutani provides, always helpful.

Pissed, Takahiro leans back again. He’s frowning, arms crossed and staring silently at Kyoutani to make his point as clear as possible.

“Not everyone is as oblivious as you are,” Kyoutani growls. “If you hadn’t been moping around, you’d seen it too.”

“I wasn’t _moping_. Fuck you, Kyoutani.”

“Yes, yes, whatever. I get it now.” Takahiro grimaces, completely aware his banter has been a fruitless try of keeping Kyoutani off the real topic. “You should know already, getting attached to a man in your same situation isn’t gonna end well.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Kyoutani arches his eyebrows. “I mean it. We did whatever we did, granted, but that’s not what I expected. He was sad and broken and he wasn’t eating much so I thought…”

“You thought, _hell, let’s take care of this dude I just met so I don’t have to focus on taking care of myself_. Sucks for you, Hanamaki, because you _have_ to focus on yourself now.”

“Fuck you.” But there’s no strength on that insult because, alas, Kyoutani is right once again. The amount of metaphorical slaps Takahiro has been getting lately is starting to bother him. He _is_ smarter than this. “Fuck.”

“I need to go,” Kyoutani says while he fusses over his wallet. “I get off tomorrow at seven. If you’re about to have a breakdown again, call me.”

“I’m not calling you after working a twenty-four-hour shift.”

“Only if you are having a breakdown. Bye.”

As succinct as usual. Takahiro can’t even wave goodbye before he’s off the door and running to save lives. Takahiro should learn from his example. Fill his waking hours with so much work he won’t be able to even think about all the lacks in all the other corners of his life.

 

 

Two weeks from the night Takahiro let Matsukawa Issei blow his brains out through his cock, he finds himself in front of Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s new apartment, finally moved in by the date of yesterday. It’s the first time Takahiro comes over because as the shitty friend he is, he has made excuses for a week to avoid coming here sooner.

The mere thought of helping them settle in their new lives had felt like a betrayal to himself and his raw emotions. Selfish, sure, but as Watari had put it, Takahiro needs to prioritize his self-preservation.

A short knock. His heart is thundering in his ears and in his hand, tightly closed around the neck of the bottle he’s brought as a congratulation gift. For a second Takahiro thinks, _please, please, let them not hear the knock, let them not open the door, please, let me leave_. He hopes his thoughts aren’t mirrored on his quivering smile when Iwaizumi opens the door.

“Hanamaki! Thanks for coming. Here, come in.”

“ _Ojamashimasu_ ,” he mutters, taking his shoes off, offering the bottle with a shaky hand. “Congrats on the new apartment, man.”

Iwaizumi’s smile is wide and honest and warm as the sun. Takahiro can see why Oikawa and Matsukawa have fallen in love with it.

“Wow, this is good stuff. Thank you so much. Please, the others are on the living room.”

Takahiro nods, taking his coat off and hanging it before he finally catches the meaning of Iwaizumi’s words. “Others? I thought—”

“Oh, yeah. I invited my friend Matsukawa, if that’s okay with you.” Speechless, Takahiro stares at Iwaizumi’s back, disappearing through the corridor and into what Takahiro assumes to be the kitchen. The sound of his heart is now a faded buzz, the loud whirring of two weeks without even a _hey_ as a reply to a blowjob, a handjob and the realisation they are two losers on the same boat overtaking everything else.

He doesn’t even hear Oikawa until he sees him launch himself against Takahiro, still unmoving on the entrance. “Makki! Finally, I thought you wouldn’t make it. What are you doing? Come on, get in.”

Takahiro wants to answer, something smartass and funny, but his thoughts are too fuzzy to pick the right one. He follows a chattering Oikawa through the corridor, having the shortened version of a house-visit. _Kitchen, toilet, bedroom, living room_.

The apartment is beautiful, the decoration a mirror of the men living in it. The furniture has been chosen with intention, the colors a matching set of Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s personalities. Takahiro processes as much, but he does it as an afterthought. He’s too occupied staring at Matsukawa like an idiot to do anything else.

“Hey, Matsun. You remember my friend? Hanamki Takahiro. Makki, this Matsukawa Issei.”

Matsukawa stands up and offers him his hand, his gaze glued somewhere over Takahiro’s left shoulder. The smile is tense, albeit convincing enough to not be rude. Takahiro wants to smash it.

Instead, he shakes Matsukawa’s hand, hard enough to make him wince, but not enough to break some bones. Sadly.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure it is,” Takahiro hisses before he can stop himself. When Oikawa comes closer, he says with a smile as wide as the ocean, “Likewise.”

Matsukawa doesn’t seem convinced at all.

 

The dinner is nice. Homemade. By _Iwaizumi_. Takahiro eats it, praises it and lets it sink into his stomach, where it turns into cement and more poison to keep feeding his heartbreak. Iwaizumi is nice, and funny, and a sweet ass and a geek. He has a great body, an amazing smile, and when he looks at Oikawa one would think Oikawa has hung the moon, the stars and the sun itself.

Takahiro wonders, while he eats and listens and answers, without ever recalling what and who and how, if he’d ever looked at Oikawa that way. He takes a piece of fish and thinks, _what if I’d learned how to cook, what if I’d gone to the gym, what if, what if, what if_. The food he feeds his body starts falling through his throat on the shapes of _what ifs_. By the time the bottle he’s brought as a present gets open after dessert, Takahiro’s fairly sure he’ll throw up if he swallows one more.

“This is really expensive, Makki,” Oikawa says with a frown. “You really didn’t have to.”

“My best friend’s starting one of the best periods of his life. Of course I had to.” The smile hurts his cheeks, that fake it feels, but Oikawa nods and smiles back, his every shade of happy.

“Let’s drink to that. Here, Matsukawa.”

He hasn’t looked at Matsukawa all night, but he does at the chorused _kanpai!_. If there were a mirror in front of them, there would be no way of telling them apart. Forget their physical appearances, they both look like the ghost of past miseries.

Where the thought should have made him laugh, now it only enrages him. Takahiro drinks the expensive sake, chatters with Oikawa, and drinks again. Matsukawa sits straight and tense, barely managing a smile of his own. Iwaizumi pats his shoulder, and Matsukawa leans on the touch before he realises he can’t do that anymore, and shrugs, letting Iwaizumi’s hand fall off.

It is torture. Ten kinds of torture. For Takahiro _and_ Matsukawa. If it was bad when they only had their imagination, it is Hell now that they have the real thing to bathe in. Takahiro can acknowledge as much. Shit, he knew the second he accepted the invitation for dinner this would be dooming. The self-pity-party is going to be amazing once _he_ makes it back home.

He’s not sure Matsukawa will make it back home at all. He’s not even sure Matsukawa realises how fucked up he really is. The man _needs_ to vent out before all that unrequited love turns into a virus and eats him up from the inside. Takahiro doesn’t really plan on it, but the staring starts with the bottle and stays thorough the next twenty minutes, in which Takahiro manages to keep a conversation with Oikawa while making sure Matsukawa’s stays far away from the edge. When the clock strikes ten, Takahiro’s certain Matsukawa will have a nervous breakdown if he doesn’t leave this apartment in the next thirty seconds.

“Well. We should be going,” Takahiro says, standing up with a smile and an obvious emphasis on the _we_. Matsukawa’s staring at him with eyes wide open and a fear Takahiro enjoys a bit too much. “It’s your first weekend together in your new apartment. You need to make it count.”

“You really don’t need to leave so early,” Iwaizumi says in return, smiling and welcoming. _Shit, it’d be so much easier if I could hate you, man_.

“I know. You will start regretting the sentiment after we spend here almost every friday.”

Iwaizumi laughs at that, a soft pat on Takahiro’s shoulder. “I bet I won’t.”

Matsukawa stands, as awkward as the robot Takahiro remembers from the izakaya. He hugs Iwaizumi, painfully, and then Oikawa, more caringly than Takahiro expects of him. Takahiro’s own round of hugs isn’t as bad as he anticipates. When Oikawa’s arms circle him and press tight, there’s a flutter of butterflies in Takahiro’s stomach, all those _what ifs_ that, weirdly, feel lighter than they did an hour ago.

“Take care of yourselves,” Oikawa says at the door. Matsukawa waves goodbye, face neutral. Takahiro smiles at his best friend and wishes him goodnight before turning around and following Matsukawa down the stairs.

The bastard has run to make it to the street before Takahiro. The little shit.

“Hey! You! Don’t you fucking think for a second you can run from me.”

Matsukawa stops on the ground floor, shoulders hunched in defeat.

“I really can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck if I care,” Takahiro pants, grabbing Matsukawa by the elbow and dragging him forward. “You _owe_ me, this time, so suck it up and stop the whining.”

“Hanamaki. I _can’t_.”

Ah, the pain in his voice is soul-shattering. Takahiro wants to be mad, but one doesn’t kick an already dying dog. He stops their walking and steps before him, hand still on his elbow. Matsukawa’s chin is buried in his chest, heavy breathing swelling his coat. Takahiro can’t recall seeing a man who needed a cry more than this one.

Goddammit, he deserves a medal for this.

After a loud sigh, he says, “What I’m about to do doesn’t erase the fact that I’m pissed as fuck with you, okay?”

“What?”

Matsukawa can’t word anything else. Takahiro throws his arms around his neck, holding tight enough to choke him, making sure Matsukawa’s shoulders are covered, that his arms are free to give back the hug if he feels like it.

“I know how bad that was,” Takahiro whispers into his ear. “It was draining, and painful.” His arms tighten around Matsukawa, trying to calm his shallow breathing, trying to keep himself from breaking. “Did you see the pictures? And the matching sets of mugs? Shit, and the color palettes? The whole apartment is a mirror of their relationship. They only need to put a ring on their fingers to make it even worse, don’t they.”

That finally crosses the mist of numbness. A shudder shakes Matsukawa’s body, then a dry sob, and at last his trembling arms find their way around Takahiro’s middle and hold on for dear life. Matsukawa is a silent crier, or at least he’s biting down the sounds of his desperation. If someone sees them, they’ll think this is a lovers’ embrace, for they won’t feel the warmth of Matsukawa’s tears against Takahiro’s neck, or hear the little sniffing sounds followed by a hiccuped sob, or feel the way Matsukawa’s body is shaking and shaking, as if the earthquakes of his emotions could tear him apart.

Takahiro holds him, lets his hands draw soothing circles on the back of his head and his back, absorbs every piece of emotion he feels strong enough to carry. Staring up at the night sky, he even allows himself a tear or two, finally putting an end to a love that was never meant to be.

Matsukawa stays in Takahiro’s embrace for a little longer after the sobs cease. He’s still shaking. His hands are warm on Takahiro’s sides, the length of his arms almost covering completely Takahiro’s back. It’s nice. The warmth, the tightness. He hasn’t been hugged for this long, this intensely since… well, since ever. He should start letting guys cry their guts out on him more often.

A loud sniff. And then, “I’m really embarrassed now.”

“Is that why you’re still glued to me?” A humming acknowledgment. “Look, I’ll allow you a couple more minutes of hug but that’s it. You are a bit of a dick. Dicks don’t have the luxury of night-long hugs.”

“Night-long hugs?” Matsukawa mutters against his neck, his nose nudging where his tears have almost dried up.

“You bet. On comfortable surfaces. Like beds. And with or without clothes, that depends.”

“On the level of dickness?”

“On the size of the dick, really.”

Matsukawa chuckles at that. Takahiro smiles despite himself, the weight of his worry lifting at the sound of his laugh. It would be the perfect time to untangle himself from Matsukawa’s arms, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He caresses Matsukawa’s scalp softly, enjoying the touch of his hair and the tickle of his breath against his skin.

What a mess.

With a sigh, Matsukawa unlocks his fingers from Takahiro’s ribs and steps back. Takahiro shivers, his back suddenly weak to the cold now that Matsukawa’s arms aren’t there to protect it. Matsukawa’s staring at his feet, a blush on his cheeks that could be either embarrassment or the lingering effects of the crying.

“Let’s go drink something,” Takahiro says on impulse. He shouldn’t be going with Matsukawa anywhere. He’s still mad, and hurt. He’s still a bit shaky himself, the images of Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s little nest like a dart through his ribs and into his heart. Drinking sounds like an awful idea, but Takahiro looks at Matsukawa and his still bowed head and the subtle breath, taking the hunch off of his shoulders, and he doesn’t have it in him to take it back.

When Matsukawa nods, it’s settled. Takahiro starts walking, Matsukawa following suit, shoulders almost brushing.

After a minute of silence, Matsukawa mutters, “I’m really sorry.”

“Keep it.”

“I really am. I should have…”

Takahiro steps hard enough on the concrete to make it sound like a kick. Matsukawa eats his words, and stares at Takahiro with an arched brow. “I don’t wanna hear it,” Takahiro groans, hands deep in his pockets, gaze forward and yet looking sideways at every little expression crossing Matsukawa’s face. “At least wait until I have a glass I can throw at you if whatever comes out of your mouth pisses me off.”

The smirk is a good sign. If the butterflies in his stomach react to it it’s only because Takahiro’s been worried about him, too. Nothing else.

 

 

It’s another izakaya in another part of town, another night, almost another life. The memory of the dinner and seeing Oikawa and Iwaizumi together is fainted, now. Takahiro can’t make his mind around the fact tonight should had been devastating, and yet, his heart is only mildly hurting.

Takahiro orders a beer and nothing else, still full with the dinner and the butterflies and Matsukawa’s tears to eat anything.

Matsukawa orders a beer of his own and keeps silent.

He’s different from last time. Less tense, more awake. Takahiro takes a long look at him and decides it suits him better. The casual looking around, even if he’s clearly avoiding Takahiro’s eyes, the subtle straightness of his shoulders, as if he’d just remembered he has a spine to carry around. There’s a light in his eyes Takahiro only glimpsed once on their little _rendezvous_ on the bathroom; a flicker of life, of joy. Matsukawa is content tonight, and Takahiro’s chest swells, proudly.

The feeling is scary.

“You can speak now.”

Matuskawa’s lips twitch. “Well, thank you.”

“I’m serious,” Takahiro finally says after a long minute of absolute silence. “You owe me. Come on, apologize.”

Matsukawa snickers and takes a long sip of his drink. His gleaming eyes are still roaming about the room, never falling on Takahiro’s. There’s a slight stutter in his tone when he says, “I’m sorry for not answering your text.”

“And?”

“And,” another sip, another swept of the bar, “I’ll answer the next one.”

The _nerve_. “Fuck you. _You_ are the one texting me next.”

“Am I?”

Takahiro can’t help it. He kicks his shin, making him choke on his beer. That _makes_ him look back at Takahiro, if only to make his point across. “That hurt.”

Takahiro should have seen it coming, what with them both losing their control overseeing the men they love happily living with each other and crying their hearts out over it. Takahiro feels _sane_ , and yet when he opens his mouth to say something light and funny, he says instead, “You ignoring me hurt more than that, so. We’re even.”

There’s a long second before Takahiro realizes what he’s just said. He feels his eyes opening as wide as they can go, his heart suddenly louder than the izakaya’s noise.

Matsukawa says, “Oh.”

And because Takahiro has lost every and all shame, he answers, “Oh? _Oh_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“I didn’t realize… I…”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fix this, fix this before it can hurt you_.

“Look,” Takahiro says before Matsukawa can word whatever he’s thinking, “I thought we connected. You know, being in love with our best friends and all. I thought I’d found someone I could rant to who’d understand. You’re not under any obligation to text me back if you don’t feel like it. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.”

Matsukawa grimaces. That’s not the expression of a man who’s about to open his heart (yet again) and enjoy the emotional rollercoaster. _Shit._  It’s going to be another memorable night to add to Takahiro’s list of _nights I’d rather be dead than live through_.

He’s already holding the table, as if physical holding onto something could make the blow hurt less, when Matsukawa whispers, “ _We_ connected. It’s not a _thought_. We did. I just panicked.” He shrugs, answering Takahiro’s incredulous stare. “You wanted me to care and I didn’t. I just wanted to wallow on the pain and let it swallow me. It was a shitty thing to do and I’m sorry.”

It’s Takahiro’s time to say, “Oh.”

Matsukawa snorts. “Oh _is_ a nice way to summer it up, isn’t it.”

“Not really. We should be smarter than _oh_.”

Matsukawa laughs at that, a rich, full sound that has Takahiro blinking at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “I don’t think I’m smarter than _oh_.”

“Well, that’s fucking tragic.”

The laugh again. Takahiro is fascinated by how deep and rumbling it really is. It falls into his chest and fills it up to its brinks. Matsukawa’s voice and Matsukawa’s eyes and Matsukawa’s body, everything screams _alive_. He vibrates. Takahiro looks at him, drinks him in. There are wounds still there, little flickers of healthy red halfway to scarring. Takahiro says something dumb again, making the sound of Matsukawa’s laugh reach the ceiling and the open kitchen and the entrance of the place. It’s almost like the rush of a high, the way Takahiro wants to hear it, again and again. The more Matsukawa laughs, the more Takahiro sees the man that’s been hiding under all that heartbreak and pain.

“You have a great laugh,” he confesses, a beer and a half later. It’s not even flirty. Takahiro doesn’t want flirty. He just wants Matsukawa to lose the cape of hurt, he wants to see what’s underneath it. “It does something to your face.”

“It’s called a facial expression.”

Takahiro snorts. “Yeah, that too.”

Matsukawa frowns, downing the rest of his beer. “What does it do?”

“To your face?”

An arched eyebrow. Matsukawa is such an expert at eyebrow play. “Yes.”

“Light it up,” Takahiro answers, honesty dripping from his words. “It fits you.”

Matsukawa’s expression is weird. Funny, but weird. He looks as if Takahiro has just told him he smells like a really expensive old egg. “Thanks, I guess.”

Takahiro smiles, wide and big and true. “You are welcome.”

The smile he gets back does things to his butterflies he’s not really comfortable with.

 

The hangover is _bad_. Takahiro groans against his pillow, the light filtering through the curtains hitting directly over his eyes and his already burning brain. He wants to die. He opens an eye, closes it again with a hiss and a curse, and turns around. There’s a second of free fall and then a thud.

“Fuck,” he groans to the floor. Is he even alive. Maybe this is death. Maybe he should stop drinking as much and spending so many nights nurturing his heartbreak. Maybe he should just stay here forever, letting the cold wood numb the pain of his headache.

A loud _ping_ right next his ear. Takahiro moans, tries to grab the damn phone from under his head, and sighs as he unlocks the damn thing and looks for the text.

He needs a whole of five seconds to process what he’s seeing, and then a smile as wide as the horizon covers his mouth, already painful from yesterday’s exertion.

It reads, _from Matsukawa the Dick: still embarrassed af, but better. i feel a bit more alive today despite the stupid hangover._

Takahiro reads it once, twice, four times, smiling and smiling, smug and proud of himself. He’s still staring at it when the phone _pings_ again. Takahiro has to bite his lower lip to keep it from trembling when he reads, _i should have said thanks first. sorry. what a douche. i don’t know if you realize how much yesterday night meant to me, but it did. thanks for being there, hanamaki._

 _That_ he knows how to answer.

 _any time you need_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ₊·*◟(˶╹̆ꇴ╹̆˵)◜‧*･
> 
> (look, kyoutani being a doc just sort of happened but now i honestly can't take it out of my mind; i love him)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we are back again! as always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos <3
> 
> there's a smut scene in here so be warned. hope you enjoy the chapter!

Blossoming friendships are such a ride. It’s been so long since Takahiro _actually_ made a new friend he’s forgotten how fun the whole thing is. It’s also a great excuse to fill all those hours he used to spend with Oikawa, _and_ he has someone to complain to now who won’t get all cocky and smart-ass about the psychological benefits of speaking one’s mind. Takahiro _speaks_ his mind, thank you very much, and he does so by ranting and cursing on his broken heart with his new best friend and brother in misery, Matsukawa Issei.

If it’s weird they actually started their friendship through amazing sex Takahiro doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t even let his friends mention it. It’s enough having a sexy dream once or twice a month about the whole ordeal. No need to put it into words.

Because it’s _not_ about sex. For the first time since forever, Takahiro has a friend he can talk about everything and anything with. Granted, he’s not a fan of vomiting his emotional shit, but if he needs to, or wants to, he knows Matsukawa will be there holding his metaphorical hair and bringing him water afterward. Oikawa used to do that, and Kyoutani and Watari still do it more times than not. It’s just not the same (in Oikawa’s case, for obvious reasons).

Takahiro spends an awful amount of his free time with Matsukawa, now. A month after the Second Dinner and they could have been friends since childhood for how normal this feels. They even have routines. Tuesdays are ramen night. Thursdays are burger night. Fridays, if Oikawa and Iwaizumi haven’t invited them for dinner, they rather cook or order in and watch a movie. One in which something usually blows, and if it doesn’t, then it has to have at least three shooting scenes. Matsukawa loves action movies, has James Bond’s whole collection and makes an amazing impression of Conney’s. Takahiro’s planning on buying him a fake plastic James Bond gun for Christmas.

The way Takahiro has adapted to it, one would think he’s been doing it for years instead of weeks. They just fit, somehow. Takahiro would blame it on the little-crying-under-the-stars incident, but since he’s not thinking about the _whys_ or about anything beyond their here and now, it doesn’t really matter. The truth is Takahiro has found a person he connects with, when he truly believed he never would after Oikawa.

“Are we having dinner at my place?” Matsukawa asks through the phone, dangling dangerously from Takahiro’s shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” he grunts, trying to water his three plants while moving his arm which is attached to the shoulder currently holding the stupid phone. “Oikawa mentioned they wanted us to come tonight? I’m honestly not sure.”

“You’re not sure if they invited us to dinner?” The mockery in Matsukawa’s tone is clear as day.

“Look, I _was_ working. I can’t always pay attention to everything around me.”

“This is Oikawa we are talking about,” Matsukawa says as if Takahiro is of the slower lot. “You _always_ pay attention to him.”

And it is true. It _is_. The only problem being Takahiro hasn’t been paying that much attention for a while, now, hasn’t been as attached, hasn’t even been feeling the side effects of his heartbreak for way too long. It’s not that he doesn’t love Oikawa. Of course he does. Before the _I’m in love with you but I’ll never say a thing_ incident, Oikawa _was_ one of the best parts in Takahiro’s life. Heck, he still is. It’s just… it’s just his feelings have changed once again, and he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Well. I didn’t, this time.”

“Okay, well. Let me text Iwaizumi and see if you heard right. If we are having dinner at mine’s I need to go buy groceries.”

“You don’t have to. I can stop somewhere and buy us something.”

“I want to cook for you. Wait a sec.”

Takahiro holds his breath. That sounds too nice and too good, so he waves his hand over his plant, kicking the dust away together with those thoughts.

“You’re right. We are invited for dinner. Six thirty. Wanna go together?”

“Sure. Meet you at X station at six?”

“Perfect.”

Takahiro holds the phone against his sweaty ear for a minute after Matsukawa hangs up, eyes closed, breathing shakily. Just listening to the memory of his voice. Just ignoring the stupid mess boiling in his insides.

 

 

They’ve done this twice more after the first awkward _I’d rather be dead than here_ dinner. Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s place has grown more and more theirs through the weeks. Takahiro’s stomach twists every time he steps inside their apartment, a bittersweet feeling he has no way of controlling and that, after more than a month, he has come to accept as inevitable.

It’s reassuring, really. When he comes here he _knows_ he’s still in love with Oikawa.

“Hello, friends,” Takahiro says with a smile and a bottle of sake. He can feel Matsukawa behind him shaking his head. “I brought the good stuff.”

“Are you planning on turning us into alcoholics, Makki?” Oikawa asks dryly, taking the bottle and giving Takahiro a fast hug. “Thanks for coming, both of you. Did you meet at the station?”

“Uhh, yeah, sort of,” Takahiro answers, smile wavering. Oikawa frowns but lets it slide.

They aren’t keeping their friendship hidden, per se. They are just keeping it _theirs_ for a little while. A secret not fed by shame but protectiveness.

Iwaizumi hugs Matsukawa, a fast pat to his back. Takahiro’s eyes stay on them both, looks at the tightness of their arms around each other, sees the love in their embrace. He hurts for Matsukawa in a way he never lets himself hurt for his own unrequited love. The longing in those eyes would put a lesser man on his knees.

“We have nabe and steaks.”

“Sounds delicious,” Takahiro says to Oikawa’s happy smile.

“And it _smells_ delicious,” Matsukawa adds, smiling down at Iwaizumi.

The happy couple walk through the corridor and into the kitchen, leaving Matsukawa and Takahiro on the entrance, staring at each other knowingly.

“You okay?” Takahiro whispers.

Matsukawa nods, smiling sadly at him. “Yeah,” he says, albeit hoarsely. “Are you?”

“Yup. Glad I’m here with you to make it through, though.”

The smile this time is full and, if not happy, at least content. “Yeah, me too.”

They spend a few seconds more there, just staring at each other. Takahiro doesn’t need words to know that, if for any reason something goes amiss tonight, Matsukawa will be there, dragging him out of Hell.

As if sensing his thoughts, Matsukawa curls his hand around Takahiro’s nape and squeezes reassuringly. A bit of strength shared, just to fill them both with courage. Takahiro’s breath catches in his throat at the touch of those fingers.

“Let’s go.”

Takahiro nods and follows him inside.

 

 

There’s a raging sound the next morning, kicking Takahiro out of his sweet, sweet sleep. The side of his face is glued to the pillow thanks to his spit, his back warm enough to make him flinch. He groans softly. The stupid futon becomes more and more uncomfortable the more times he spends on it, which sucks. He stirs, trying to make his body come fully back to life, and ends up kicking whatever burning thing at his back.

“Ugh, stop moving.”

“Please, turn that damn alarm off,” Takahiro groans.

The sounds of Matsukawa’s hand hitting the floor in search of his phone is loud enough to make Takahiro grimace. When the alarm finally quiets down, Takahiro growls and digs his elbow on Matsukawa’s side, making him yelp.

“Why are you on my bed?”

“Technically this is _my_ bed, since I own it.”

Takahiro snorts. He finds the strength in his heavy limbs to turn around. Matsukawa’s on his back, eyes closed as if he were trying to keep his stomach where it’s supposed to be. Takahiro shares the sentiment.

“You own a proper bed,” Takahiro reminds him. “I could have slept on it if I knew you wanted to destroy your back.”

“It’s not that bad.” At Takahiro’s huff, Matsukawa smiles. “Okay, it is that bad. I couldn’t make it to the bed, okay?”

Takahiro snuggles closer to him at that, his finger poking him on the side. Matsukawa flinches, and then groans, and then yells when Takahiro’s fingers start tickling him.

“If you don’t stop I’m gonna be sick on you.”

“God forbid.”

Matsukawa pushes him off the futon, which would have worked if it weren’t for the fact they are already at floor level. Takahiro laughs and kicks Matsukawa on the thigh.

“Go make me breakfast,” he says, searching for the naked skin of his belly with his frozen feet. “I’m starving.”

“Don’t talk about food, please,” Matsukawa whimpers, hand atop his eyes. “We should stop getting drunk every time we have dinner with those two.”

“We will when we stop moping. Now, go make me food.”

“This is my house,” Matsukawa reminds him. “ _You_ should make me food as thanks for letting you stay here.”

Takahiro supposes that’s fair, but he complains about it for five more minutes, just for the fun of seeing Matsukawa’s sleepy smile turn his features into a beautiful prisma of reds. Takahiro doesn’t think about the fact this is the third time they share a single futon when Matsukawa has a perfectly functioning bed not even three steps away. He doesn’t think about the warmth in his stomach at the thought of Matsukawa spending the night at his back. He doesn’t let his brain analyze the fact he hasn’t even thought about the weirdness of this arrangement, and instead, he stands and walks to the kitchen, as if it were his.

It feels a bit like his already. He’s spent enough time in here to know where the pans are, how many eggs Matsukawa usually has left on Saturday, where the glasses pile up, or even the fact Matsukawa puts his powdered coffee in his own jar of glass and that it must be refilled every single Thursday.

“Want coffee?” Takahiro yells to the living room, getting a groan as only answer.

Takahiro smiles, coffee already in his hand. He fills the kettle and turns it on, searching for the tea he knows it’s going to be on the cupboard atop the sink. The only thing Takahiro can stomach in the morning is tea, and Matsukawa, who only drinks tea when he’s sick, has bought for him nothing less that seven types of teas for him to choose from.

It makes the already dying butterflies in Takahiro’s stomach flutter back to life, but he tells himself it’s only the excesses of yesterday night and nothing else.

Takahiro hums while he cooks. He makes soup and rice and two omelets. Matsukawa barely moves from the futon, but he does yell a song for Takahiro to hum for him every now and then.

“Breakfast’s almost done,” Takahiro yells. “Take that stupid thing you call a bed out and put the table back.”

The sounds of clattering and groans fill the house, and Takahiro snickers at the image of a really tall Matsukawa being adorably clumsy. At a heavy thump and a loud curse, Takahiro laughs out loud.

“Stop making fun of me.”

“You’re the only one making fun of yourself, man.”

Matsukawa groans in answer and Takahiro finishes their breakfast.

They don’t talk while they eat, the light of late November bathing the little apartment and turning it white, barely warming it. Takahiro steals a blanket and covers his shoulders with it, snuggling his legs under the kotatsu and around Matsukawa’s. They can hear the birds chirp outside.

“This was really good,” Matsukawa says when they finish. “Thanks.”

“You are very welcome. God, I want to sleep till tomorrow.” Takahiro falls on the floor and moans softly. “Do you think we should stop going?”

Matsukawa stills. “To dinner?”

Takahiro stares at the ceiling, breathing in for three seconds before he answers, “Yes, to dinner. With them. We go and eat and pretend everything’s fine, but we are not… are we?”

Matsukawa’s looking at him intently when Takahiro dares shift his gaze onto his.

“We _are_ getting better,” he says with confidence. Takahiro admires his ability to lie. “You don’t think you are getting better?”

Takahiro doesn’t want to think about his dying butterflies and his lack of attention or the fact he hasn’t thought about his broken heart in weeks. He _is_ in love with Oikawa. He’s just numb to the pain.

“Maybe. Yeah. I just feel… well, I feel my life has sort of stopped because of this, you know? Somehow.”

Matsukawa arches an eyebrow. Damn, Takahiro needs to ask him to teach him to do that. “Somehow? You work, you go out, you have a life you’re living. What has stopped?”

Takahiro can feel the warmth of Matsukawa’s legs, tangled with his. He shouldn’t say it, but they are friends and honest with each other and their thing is based on sharing, so he opens his mouth and mutters, “Sex. I haven’t had sex since we—” Takahiro blushes and tears his gaze away. They don’t talk about this, because this never happened. “Let’s just say I felt it was wrong to have sex while still in love with Oikawa, and now I’m not so happy with that decision.”

“Then go out and have sex.”

That easy, huh? Takahiro can’t pinpoint out exactly what it is that’s making him so uncomfortable he wants to curl into a ball, but this conversation feels wrong and weighted. Matsukawa shouldn’t be encouraging Takahiro to have sex, but there’s no way he can say that.

“Maybe I should. Maybe I should go out and try to get some tonight.”

A beat of silence, and then, “But you don’t fuck strangers.”

The remainder is a bit late, now. Takahiro stretches his arms over his head, making his shoulders pop.

“I didn’t use to fall in love with my best friends either, but here we are.”

Matsukawa frowns at that. “It’s not the same.”

“Changes are changes are changes. I’m going to a club tonight,” he decides on impulse. The butterflies kick the walls of his stomach, not agreeing with that decision, but to hell with them. Since life doesn’t provide Takahiro with what he wants, he will have to go out and get it himself.

Matsukawa sighs loudly. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll come with you.”

 

 

The music is a loud drum in his chest. His muscles can move to it without needing his ears to listen to the current song, its base almost a copy of the previous one, and the next one. Takahiro’s body moves like a river’s flow, eyes closed, unaware of the people around him. He knows this is not why they’re here. He should be paying attention, trying to make eye contact, letting know whoever’s interested that he’s also looking for a happy end tonight.

But the beat is too alluring for him to care for that, now. The music is quieting down every thought that dares pop out on his mind, and Takahiro smiles because _fucking finally_.

There’s a body near him, not touching but close. Takahiro doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Matsukawa’s there, watching over him. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to see the way every guy in here is ogling at him. Takahiro isn’t sure he wants to see it, anyway. So he keeps his eyelids shut and lets the heavy beat of the music take everything with it. Its deafening sound washes over his mind, and Takahiro sways, arms moving of their own volition, hips following suit.

“I thought we came out tonight to get you laid,” Matsukawa yells at his ear. Takahiro smirks, but his eyes don’t open. “I’m pretty sure everyone thinks we’re together.”

They are together, Takahiro wants to tell him. We came together, we are dancing together. But the meaning will be lost, and Matsukawa’s right, after all. Takahiro should be looking for a partner, not dancing with his new best friend.

“Let them think it,” Takahiro says, too low for Matsukawa to hear him properly, so he grabs the man by the shoulders and pulls him close. Takahiro’s eyes are still closed, so he doesn’t see he has dragged Matsukawa in the wrong direction until their noses clash and he finally opens his eyes.

They stare at each other for a long second, swaying with the music, Takahiro’s fingers clutching his shoulders. Their breaths mix. Their eyes are locked, reflecting the flashing lights. Takahiro’s heart starts beating together with the music. He wonders if it’s the same rhythm as Matsukawa’s. Takahiro has the sudden urge of taking his friend’s hand and leave the club right this second.

Matsukawa’s not of the same opinion, apparently, since he yells, “What?”

“I wanna keep dancing!” Takahiro answers, still holding Matsukawa. “Dance with me?”

“I’ve been dancing with you since we got here!” But he smiles, always the giver, and starts following Takahiro’s rhythm.

 _Now_ they look like they are together, and Takahiro’s too high on energy to not stare, smug as hell, to all the men around. The pride Takahiro gets out of the daggers he’s receiving should have rang the alarms. Instead, Takahiro gets closer to Matsukawa’s body, never stopping moving.

“I feel I’m keeping _you_ from getting laid,” Takahiro says against Matsukawa’s ear. If he makes his lips brush the tender skin, neither of them mention it.

Matsukawa shrugs under his palms. “I don’t want to hook up with a stranger.”

Takahiro doesn’t have it in him to remind Matsukawa they met a minute before they fucked in a bathroom. Instead he nods, and lets the music take over his body again. It feels twice as good with Matsukawa touching him, following him. The song tells Takahiro, _I feel something so right doing the wrong thing_ , and Takahiro smiles and dances to it as if his life depends on that feeling. His arms find Matsukawa’s neck and Takahiro sings along, _everything that kills me makes me feel alive_.

He feels alive, now. The rush, the sweat, the music drowning everything Takahiro worries about. He can feel the blood in his veins flowing, the speed of his heart in his hands and his knees. Takahiro laughs, pulling Matsukawa’s head closer.

With his lips brushing his cheek, he yells, “I love dancing!”

Matsukawa chuckles. “I can see that!”

“I don’t care about getting laid anymore!”

Matsukawa’s hands are on his hips, his thumbs far from his hip bones. Takahiro wants to tell him to put them there, to make him squirm the way he did the first night they met.

“Are you sure?!” Matsukawa asks, close enough for Takahiro to feel his voice rumble through his chest.

“You were right! I don’t fuck strangers!”

The music can’t erase the tension of that confession. Maybe it’s the club, a reminder of that night long ago, or the sweat, or the desperation they both still feel for their broken hearts. Maybe it’s Takahiro and his stupids butterflies, turning something simple like friendship into something way more complicated than it ought to be.

“But do you still want to get laid?!” Matsukawa asks, close, close, so close Takahiro can lead his movements.

“Yes!” One thousand times yes. Takahiro can’t answer Matsukawa’s gaze and so he closes his eyes again, and dances and sweats and lets the beat take that confession with it.

“Hanamaki.”

It’s a whisper, right in his ear. Matsukawa’s lips are warm and wet against his skin, and Takahiro closes his eyes harder. It feels like a dream.

“What?”

Instead of answering, Matsukawa grabs his wrist and pulls, dragging them both across the dancefloor. Takahiro follows, his temples beating louder than the music. Somehow he knows where they are going, and a bathroom is not what he wants. On the corridor, he stops dead in place, forcing Matsukawa to stop as well.

“Wait.” It feels heavy in his stomach. He understands what Matsukawa’s doing, and although a part of him (a _huge_ part) wants it, Takahiro won’t allow him to put Takahiro’s wants first again. This is not a _my friend needs me to go right away_ kind of sacrifice.

“What?” Matsukawa pulls from Takahiro’s wrist till their sides are touching. “Not good?”

“It’s not that,” Takahiro groans, not fighting against the grip. “Do _you_ want to get laid? Do you want us to do… do you really want this?”

Matsukawa looks at him, his expression shadowed with every flicker of the lights. His cheeks are blue, then pink, then green. Takahiro can’t take his eyes off of him.

“What are you asking me?”

Fuck the man. He knows _exactly_ what Takahiro’s asking. As if Takahiro doesn’t know already Matsukawa would do anything for his friends, even if it goes against his own wellbeing.

“Do you want to have sex with me for real, Matsukawa? Or is this just another one of your altruistic cases?”

“I haven’t had sex since I realised how I felt,” Matsukawa confesses, his fingers tight around Takahiro’s wrist. “Since I don’t fuck strangers, and we are friends, and you want this…”

Takahiro’s heart stutters in his chest. It’s not bad, exactly, but it doesn’t feel entirely good hearing how convenient them fucking actually is.

“I trust you,” Matsukawa mutters, and Takahiro’s butterflies fly in his stomach. “And when we— I can’t say I haven’t thought about it once or twice since.”

“And we both know how we feel about Oikawa and Iwaizumi,” Takahiro adds. His heart is beating so fast his breathing hurts. “So that won’t be a problem. We know what this is. We are friends.”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa agrees, his eyes locked with Takahiro’s. “We can mourn our broken hearts while kicking it out of our systems together.”

They stare at each other for a very long, very charged second. “You’re taking me home this time,” Takahiro adds in a rush. “I’m not doing the whole bathroom thing again.”

“You didn’t like it?” But Matsukawa’s smile is sly. He chuckles while Takahiro takes him from the arm and leads them towards their coats. They put them on in a rush, and as fast they make it to the street and into the train station.

Takahiro doesn’t think about how normal their way home feels, albeit charged with expectation. They joke and make fun of each other, lingering touches when they feel bold enough. Nothing of the nerves Takahiro used to drown on. Nothing of the dread he’d used to feel every time he was too close to Oikawa, too close to someone he was mildly interested in.

This is just a new aspect in their already packed routine. It’s normal to feel as calm and confident with it.

They are friends, after all.

 

 

They fall silent the closer they get to Matsukawa’s apartment. Takahiro has his nose buried in his scarf. He peeks once in a while, trying to catch Matsukawa’s expression. Takahiro wants to believe they trust each other enough to word their discomfort if it comes down to it.

God, he _hopes_ Matsukawa still wants to do this.

The apartment is as messy as they left it. The futon is on a corner, the dishes still piled up on the sink. Takahiro looks around and compels his heart to calm the fuck down. He can hear Matsukawa taking his coat and scarf off behind him.

“Hanamaki?”

Well, to hell with it. Takahiro won’t let second thoughts come into play now.

He undoes his scarf and throws it to the ground. Matsukawa has no time to admonish him before Takahiro has him against the door, mouth on his. Takahiro moans, hands deep in Matsukawa’s hair. He nips at his lower lip, licks his mouth, coercing it to open up to Takahiro’s invasion. The last time they did this Matsukawa was the one on the offense, and having him now under him, so pliable and malleable, is doing things to Takahiro’s stomach he’s not ready to face.

Matsukawa lets himself be kissed, answering Takahiro’s tongue with his, hands on Takahiro’s waist. He can feel how cold they are through the fabric. Takahiro has the wild thought he needs those hands warm and on him _right now_.

“Bed,” he says in Matsukawa’s mouth.

Matsukawa nods, kicks his shoes off, pushes Takahiro’s coat off. “Come here,” he moans, dragging Takahiro against his hard body, kissing him until Takahiro’s thoughts are air. He’s arched against Matsukawa’s chest, arms around his neck. Matsukawa’s kisses make his brain shut down.

“This is not the bed,” he mutters against Matsukawa’s mouth, enjoying the feel of his cold fingers under his shirt. “Fuck, this feels good.”

“Wait until we are naked.”

Takahiro only moans in answer. Naked sounds _amazing_.

“Naked. We need to get naked,” he gasps when Matsukawa pulls his sweater off together with his shirt. His mouth, growing more demanding by the second, kisses Takahiro until he’s breathless, and then starts a path down his throat into his chest. “Fuck. Bite it?” Takahiro asks, squirming against Matsukawa when his lips close around his nipple.

He whimpers when Matsukawa does as told. Takahiro’s so hard he has trouble focusing on what his feet are doing, but somehow he manages to kick his own shoes off. His hands pull from Matsukawa’s hair.

“Bed. We need a bed. I need you naked.”

“Whatever you want.”

They stumble against walls and doors and then they both fall onto Matsukawa’s bed, awfully cold to the touch. Takahiro yelps, arching his back, but Matsukawa pins him down with his body right after.

Takahiro opens his legs instinctively, making room for Matsukawa’s hips, perfectly fitting against his. Takahiro’s breath catches. The pressure against his hard cock is so good…

“Clothes. Off.” They both get tangled with Matsukawa’s shirt and sweater, but as soon as the damn things are on the floor, their mouths find each other, open and wanting. Takahiro’s drunk from pleasure and need. He wants Matsukawa to lose his pants. Shit, he wants Matsukawa to lose _himself_.

The thought snaps something inside Takahiro. Without breaking the kiss he pushes Matsukawa on his back, straddling him on the way. Matsukawa’s hands grip Takahiro’s hips, those nervous thumbs torturing the sensible spot of his hip bones. Takahiro moans around Matsukawa’s tongue, his hips thrusting of their own accord.

Hands holding Matsukawa’s face, Takahiro leans back a bit, enough so he can stare down at Matsukawa and his shining eyes, the glassy cover of pleasure under the half-closed eyelids. Takahiro promises himself he will kiss every patch of red on Matsukawa’s face before the night ends.

“What do you want?” Takahiro whispers. His ears are still buzzing with the club’s loud music.

“You,” Matsukawa answers, as if it were the most obvious thing.

“No,” Takahiro insists. “What do you want me to do to _you_?”

Matsukawa blinks at him, confused more by the request than by its meaning.

“I’ll have you however way you want.”

“Fuck that,” Takahiro groans against Matsukawa’s mouth, right before kissing him until they are both out of breath. “You did me last time. It’s my turn to return the favor.”

“You _did_.”

Takahiro doesn’t acknowledge that bullshit with an answer, so he goes down again and kisses Matsukawa, softly and lightly. He nips at his lips, sucks on them, draws them with his tongue. Matsukawa pants under him, mouth pliable under his. Takahiro can’t but moan at how good he feels.

“Come on. Please? I’d love to give you what you really want,” Takahiro insists, still kissing him. Matsukawa whimpers under his hands. Takahiro’s hips will be bruised tomorrow if Matsukawa keeps gripping as hard as he’s doing. “Whatever it is. I wanna do it.”

“Fuck, I—” Matsukawa sighs into Takahiro’s kiss. “I like… would you…”

Takahiro stares, fascinated, as Matsukawa blushes all over, unable to word anything else. Pushing himself up on his hands, Takahiro looks down at Matsukawa’s embarrassment. His hands are gripping Takahiro with desperation.

“Show me?” Takahiro says, overly aware Matsukawa has probably never put his own needs above those of his partner. Takahiro’s not even sure if Matsukawa has _ever_ asked for what he really wants, what he really needs.

Matsukawa nods, not answering his gaze, and undoes his pants. Takahiro helps him take them off, crawling off of him and standing between his legs. Matsukawa’s underwear follows, and there he lays, cock against his belly, flushed and hard. Takahiro’s eyes linger on it, his own twitching with interest.

“Supplies and stuff are in the nightstand,” Matsukawa adds, arm vaguely pointing to it.

Takahiro nods and retrieves the lube.

When he makes it back to where Matsukawa’s still splayed on the bed there’s a nervous twitch on his fingers, his chest swelling in hard intakes.

“Are you nervous?”

“It doesn’t usually go like this,” Matsukawa says through gritted teeth.

“How does it usually go?” Takahiro asks, honestly curious. He settles between Matsukawa’s legs, spreading them, while he talks. Matsukawa makes room for him without a second thought. Takahiro has to swallow at the sight of him.

“I give. People take. Everyone comes. End of the story.”

Takahiro licks his lips. He leaves the lube beside Matsukawa’s thigh, hands prickling with the need to touch all that naked skin.

“I see. Can I touch you?” Matsukawa frowns but nods. Takahiro lets his hands roam, starting on Matsukawa’s hard thighs, up to his crotch, ignoring the painfully hard cock, up to his ribs and to his nipples. Matsukawa shivers under his touch. “I thought you said you stopped going to the gym,” Takahiro accuses, so turned on it’s shameful.

Matsukawa snorts. “I did. Didn’t stop going to practice, though.”

“Well, fuck _you_.”

“I hope so.”

Takahiro almost swallows his tongue at that, eyes darting to Matsukawa’s. The pool of want he finds there sends a rush of heat down his spine. Takahiro’s a word from losing his control when he says, “I will. Now, show me,” Takahiro urges, leaning back to give Matsukawa enough room to move about.

Their eyes remain unlocked, Matsukawa’s shaky hand going down his chest, past his belly, cupping his cock for a second before it moves past it. He opens his legs wider, knees up the bed. Takahiro can hear his heavy breathing while he looks at Matsukawa’s fingers poke his entrance, silently pleading.

“Fuck,” Takahiro mutters. His brain is officially fried. “Want me?” Takahiro asks, hoarsely. Matsukawa nods. “What do you want? My mouth, my fingers, my cock? Fuck, Matsukawa, you really need to tell me this before I lose my mind.”

Matsukawa blinks at Takahiro, processing his offers. “Mouth?” Matsukawa asks, small and confused. “I’ve never—”

Takahiro moans low in his throat. “That what you want?”

Matsukawa blushes again, hard, but his eyes stay on Takahiro’s. “Maybe not… Maybe not today.”

Takahiro nods. “What, then?”

“Fingers?” He says it as a question, and something soft breaks free in Takahiro’s chest. This _is_ what Matsukawa wants, and yet, he can’t find it in him to make it a demand. Takahiro would give him anything he asked right now, so of course he will give him his fingers.

Takahiro leans forward and rewards him with a kiss, a thorough, hard one. Matsukawa’s hands bury in Takahiro’s short hair, keeping him close, their cocks almost aligned. Takahiro’s blindly searching for the lube, mouth intent on bruising Matsukawa’s until it hurts to even smile. He finds it, opens it and slicks his fingers without ever breaking the kiss, Takahiro almost as desperate to show Matsukawa how much he wants him as Matsukawa is for getting what he wants.

“Hold me close,” Takahiro orders, hand cupping Matsukawa’s cock, stroking him lazily. Matsukawa squirms under him, mouth wet against Takahiro’s cheek. “This isn’t what you want, is it, though?” Matsukawa shakes his head, legs opening wider. His cock is hard and hot in Takahiro’s grip.

Matsukawa groans, legs around Takahiro’s hips now. Takahiro can’t but chuckle against Matsukawa’s lips before he lets go of his cock and finds his entrance, already twitching for him. When the tip of his finger caresses the rim Matsukawa moans loud and long, almost a yelp when Takahiro pushes in. The sounds of need coming from Matsukawa’s mouth are a better energizer than the music at the club.

Takahiro fucks Matsukawa with a finger until Matsukawa urges for more. Adds a second finger, waiting for Matsukawa’s body to adapt to the intrusion, softly pushing in and out, his tongue mimicking the movement on Matsukawa’s mouth. Matsukawa clenches around him, tearing from Takahiro’s throat a heavy groan. “You feel so tight.”

“It’s been a while,” Matsukawa gasps. Of course it’s been a while. If Matsukawa hasn’t been fucking himself in the loneliness of this room, then it’s been at least two years. “Shit, I forgot how good this feels.”

“We haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” Takahiro warns, before he thrusts his fingers in and bends them. Matsukawa yells so loud the walls shake, and his body undulates from head to toes when Takahiro does it again and again and again. Matsukawa’s cock is leaking onto his stomach, his ass closing around Takahiro’s fingers, demanding for more.

“Another?” Takahiro pants against Matsukawa’s temple. Matsukawa shudders, nods, grabs Takahiro’s shoulders and Takahiro’s nape, keeping him glued to his body. At the third finger Matsukawa lets out a long, long breath and stops breathing altogether, sweating and trembling. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Matsukawa’s eyes are closed, his body vibrating. “It feels so…”

“So what?” Takahiro asks, eagerly. His hand is stilled, fingers buried in Matsukawa’s heat.

“Intense.”

Takahiro doesn’t dare ask more. He groans his agreement and pulls his fingers out just to thrust them back in, bending them to hit Matsukawa and force a long yell out of his throat. Takahiro doesn’t stop this time, change the pace, trying to hit his prostate in his way in and in his way out, mouth sucking at Matsukawa’s ear, Matsukawa’s neck, Matsukawa’s collarbone. The unattended cock is making a mess on Matsukawa’s belly, and Takahiro’s eyes are glued to it the faster he fucks him, the harder he goes.

“Shit, shit, I’m so— fuck, Hanamaki, I feel—”

Takahiro kisses him silent, the sound of his fingers fucking Matsukawa making him go a bit crazy. Matsukawa moans against his mouth, his fingers digging in his skin, drawing blood. Takahiro somehow manages to free his other hand and close it around Matsukawa’s cock. After that they don’t say another word. They can’t. Takahiro’s too occupied fucking Matsukawa with everything he has, and Matsukawa’s too overwhelmed by Takahiro’s focus on his pleasure to do anything else.

It doesn’t take long for Matsukawa to scream, arching on the bed and into Takahiro’s chest, ass closing hard around Takahiro’s fingers, cock spurting on his chest and in Takahiro’s hand. Takahiro keeps mouthing kisses around his neck and jaw, hand idly stroking him dry, fingers unmoving inside of him.

Matsukawa’s shivering under him, oversensitive, blushed and heaving. Takahiro can’t recall ever seeing him more beautiful than now.

He removes first his hand from his cock and then, slowly, his fingers from inside of him. Matsukawa flinches. Takahiro stands back and looks down at him until he’s sure the image will forever haunt his memories.

“Thanks,” Matsukawa whispers, eyes closed. Takahiro has no words. He’s so hard in his pants he’s surprised he hasn’t come as soon as Matsukawa did. “You okay?”

“If you give me a hand,” he manages through shaky breaths, “I’ll be even better.”

Matsukawa smiles, the one that’s sly and slow and full of it, and Takahiro’s stomach turns. “Come here, then.”

It’s the best hand-job Takahiro remembers ever receiving.

 

 

It’s not about sex.

Takahiro doesn’t let himself think about it much, but the times the thought crosses his mind finds him surprised and amazed because, against all odds, fucking changes neither their dynamic nor their friendship. Their routine stays, and so do the jokes, and so do the dinners with their beloved ones. They watch movies, cook for each other, sleep in the same bed and, sometimes, when the tension gets too high or the day is too bad or Oikawa and Iwaizumi are way too lovey-dovey, they come back home and fuck their brains out.

It’s really not about sex.

So why the hell can’t Takahiro stop thinking about it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (๑ ˊ͈ ᐞ ˋ͈ )ƅ̋
> 
> (this is [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjhFsPNk6Po) from the club scene)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting this a day earlier 'cause I won't be able to post it this weekend. 
> 
> thank you so, so much for all your comments and kudos. i love these boys and seeing you enjoying this story makes me extremely happy.

The week before December starts is an absolute disaster.

Takahiro messes up at work on Monday, earning a scold and two hours of teaching work on Friday. Oikawa isn’t thrilled since they were supposed to meet for dinner. Takahiro smiles, reassures his friend, and tries to forget the whole incident.

On Wednesday the shop where he ordered Kyoutani’s birthday present calls to let him know they are overflowing with requests and his will be ready no earlier than the 8th. Takahiro has to spend an hour and a half of his lunchtime to make them understand he’d ordered the damn thing three weeks ago because it has to be ready _before_ the 7th. He comes out of it victorious, but Takahiro’s lifespan has decreased in at least three years. He won’t be able to use his ear for at least a week.

Thursday finds him with a headache and a sore throat, but he makes it to work. He couldn’t recall his day even if someone put a gun to his head. Takahiro’s feverish and shivering to the core of his bones when he finally makes it back home. He’s sure he eats something, but when he wakes up at the pounding sound of someone knocking on his door, he doesn’t know if he really ate or if he only dreamt of eating.

Takahiro drags himself to the door, a blanket around his shoulders. He doesn’t even bother looking through the peephole. On the other side stands Matsukawa with a bowl of soup, a bag from the conbini and a frown.

“I think I’m dying,” Takahiro tells him, not even surprised to see him here.

“You’re not dying,” Matsukawa reassures him, stepping inside. Takahiro walks backward, giving him space to take his shoes off and hang his coat. “But you do look feverish.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“You don’t look good.”

Takahiro squints. “Fuck you.”

Matsukawa’s smile is relieved when his hand cups Takahiro’s cheek, thumb caressing the bag under his eye. “You’re burning. Did you take something?”

“Death,” Takahiro says. Matsukawa rolls his eyes. “I took some cold medicine.”

“Did you eat?”

“I’m not sure.”

Matsukawa pushes him through the apartment and back to his bed. The sheets are a mess, pillows on the floor. Matsukawa sits Takahiro, puts the pillows back _without_ a comment which, in itself, is already a sign of how bad Takahiro must be looking.

“Lay down.” Takahiro does. “I’m gonna heat the soup, and you’re going to eat it all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Matsukawa caresses his forehead and leaves the room. Takahiro makes himself comfortable, pilling three blankets on top of him, burying his face on the pillow. He leaves his eyes half-open so he can look at Matsukawa working around the house, learning his way.

It’s the second time Matsukawa comes over. They usually go to his, since it’s closer to the center and Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s. Takahiro lives an hour from anything interesting, whereas Matsukawa is a privileged man and lives right in the middle of everything.

Takahiro doesn’t think about why he enjoys seeing him in his space so much.

“Where are the bowls?”

“On your left!”

The soup smells delicious and warm when Matsukawa brings it to him. Takahiro takes it with gluttony, suddenly aware he hasn’t fed his stomach since breakfast. “It smells good.”

Matsukawa nods and sits at the foot of the bed, legs crossed. Takahiro’s appreciative sounds seem to please him.

“How did you know I was sick?”

“You sent me a message saying, and I quote, ‘I’m dying please bury me with my cat’. Since you don’t have I cat I assumed it was serious.”

Takahiro chuckles against the bowl, answering Matsukawa’s amused gaze.

“Is cat now code for sick?” Matsukawa asks, making Takahiro spill his soup. He’s too sick to be laughing this hard, but god, leave it to Matsukawa to find the dirty in a stupid message like that. “What? What did I say?”

“You know what you said, sir. Stop making me laugh and let me finish my soup.”

Matsukawa stays quiet, but his smile is louder than his words. It should be weird, having Matsukawa silently there while Takahiro eats, but it feels everything but. Takahiro finishes his soup with a content sigh and leans back against his pillows.

“Thank you.”

“Now your medicine,” Matsukawa says while offering him a glass of water and a small bottle. “I’m assuming you’re going to work tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“I can’t skip. I’m grounded.” Matsukawa snorts, just as Takahiro intended. “I’ll be better once I sleep it off.”

“Want me to cancel dinner with Oikawa and Iwaizumi?”

Takahiro looks at his hands for a long second, long enough for Matsukawa to sit beside him, caging him under the blankets. Takahiro doesn’t want to answer his gaze, but Matsukawa leaves him no choice when he grabs Takahiro’s hands and squeezes. Takahiro grimaces when he looks up.

“Maybe. Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Want to elaborate?”

Takahiro shrugs. “Oikawa was a bit pissed at me for messing up.” Matsukawa arches an eyebrow. “I know it was an accident, and so does he. It just… we, _I_ canceled last time. I think he maybe felt I was trying to make up an excuse to not go. Again.”

“We are entitled to cancel.” Takahiro makes a sound of agreement. “Is it because you are with me?”

 _Yes_. “No.” But Matsukawa has read his damn mind, because his lips are doing that sad thing Takahiro hates so much. “Maybe. I feel selfish. Like I’m punishing him because of my feelings, and that’s not fair.”

Matsukawa opens his mouth, closes it, frowns. Takahiro wants to force his words out, let them hurt him if that’s why he’s keeping them in. He’s strong enough.

“I can go,” Matsukawa mutters, eyes on their tangled hands. Takahiro needs a second to understand, but Matsukawa’s speaking again. “You cancel. I go. They won’t be mad if I’m there.”

“I’m not letting you go alone. It’s bad enough you keep your weekly lunch with Iwaizumi,” Takahiro reminds him, crushing his fingers until the tips are white. “If we go, we go together.”

Matsukawa looks at Takahiro funny. “Oikawa will be mad if we don’t go.”

“Oikawa can come and nurse me to health if he’s so pissed,” Takahiro growls. “Look. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow morning and then we decide. Okay?”

Matsukawa nods, forehead broken in confused lines. Takahiro pats his cheek and then sighs loudly. He’s not really sure how to say what he’s about to say, but hell, they have a really weird, out of the book friendship already. “Will you stay?” he asks with a small voice. “Being sick and alone isn’t my favorite hobby.” _What an understatement_.

He doesn’t even need to think about it, apparently. Takahiro’s relief is a cold caress on his fever. “Of course.” Matsukawa stands, taking Takahiro’s hand with him. “Let me borrow something to sleep in?”

Takahiro breathes out, relieved. He nods and points Matsukawa to his wardrobe. It’s as if he’s been doing this every night for months, what with the way he finds Takahiro’s pajamas and shirts, how he takes a new toothbrush and ends up right beside Takahiro on the bed.

Already under the blankets, Takahiro looks at him get comfortable. Matsukawa looks down at him and smiles. “If you wake me up at night I’ll wake you up in the morning with a shower of freezing water.”

“If you don’t nurse me when I wake up I’ll send my nonexisting cat to haunt you,” Takahiro says back.

He falls asleep with the sound of Matsukawa’s soft laugh in his ears.

 

 

Takahiro’s a proper human being by noon the next day. According to Matsukawa it’s thanks to his magic soup and his caring personality. Takahiro has to send him a text reminding him he’s the loudest snorer in the whole of Japan.

The cloud of the upcoming dinner shadows his day which, otherwise, goes pretty well. His boss comes down at lunch to warn him, “You must behave like a proper adult this afternoon, Hanamaki-san. You are representing the lab in front of all those students.” It’s a show of Takahiro’s adult behavior he doesn’t snort in his face.

The class Takahiro teaches from five to seven has him jumping with nerves to a high of energy he would have never thought he has in him. Teaching has always been a nightmare in the metaphorical future of his career, but after ending the class with a chorus of laughs and several happy faces, Takahiro can’t keep his pleased smile.

He is in a good mood. Hell, he’s in a great mood. Takahiro would go as far as to say he’s happy, today, of all days. The cold is still lingering in his system, but Matsukawa has texted him through the day, he hasn’t seen Oikawa since morning and he has just realized how good it feels to teach a class to a bunch of kids that are interested in what he has to say.

So of course life has to hit him with a sledgehammer right when he’s in the peak of it.

“Makki,” Oikawa calls him, forcing Takahiro to slide on the frozen ground.

“Oikawa? What are you doing here? I thought we were gonna meet—” Takahiro’s words get stuck in his mouth at the sight of Oikawa’s expression. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“I want to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

Oh, well. Too good to be true.

“Sure. Want to talk on the way to your house?”

“Let’s talk first.”  _That bad, huh_.

They walk to the station in silence, Takahiro not daring break it for fear of pissing Oikawa even more. The silent treatment is never a good sign with Oikawa. Takahiro can’t even fathom how bad whatever this is for him to keep quiet so long.

“So, what’s—”

“Is it Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, cutting Takahiro’s question. He steps in front of him, forcing Takahiro to stop on his tracks.

“What is?”

“Your problem,” Oikawa hisses, venom pouring from his voice. Takahiro takes a step back, eyes open, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. “You’ve been avoiding me, _us_ , for a while now. And it’s not cute! And your excuses are even less believable.”

Takahiro stares at Oikawa with his heart in his throat and his hands shaking. There are clouds of thoughts crossing his mind so fast he can’t grab any of them, so he stays silent, and Oikawa grows angrier.

“Say something!”

“What do you want me to say? I like Iwaizumi. He makes you happy, he’s a nice guy. I’ve been having dinner with you guys for _months_ , what the fuck is _your_ problem? What else do you want from me?”

“I want my friend back.”

Takahiro’s breath stops as if Oikawa has just kicked him in the sternum. His lungs don’t function, too occupied absorbing the hit to keep Takahiro alive.

“What does that mean?” Takahiro whispers, voice broken.

“You’ve been ghosting me for weeks. You don’t talk to me anymore, you don’t want to hang out anymore. Every time you come to our place you make a show of smiling for two hours and then flee the second it won’t be excessively rude. You barely answer my phone calls, you dismiss every attempt of a real conversation. What the fuck, Makki.”

Takahiro’s heart is beating in every nerve in his body, so loud it’s deafening. Oikawa’s expression is one of loss and hurt, and something fragile in Takahiro’s heart breaks at the sight of him. Yesterday’s conversation comes to mind, and laying there, at his feet, Takahiro sees his own selfishness, fingers as sharp as daggers.

“I—” But he can’t say anything else. What is there to say? I’ve been in love with you for almost a year and a half and it’s killing me? I can’t swallow seeing you and Iwaizumi so happy, even when I’ve learned to love you both? Takahiro blinks at Oikawa and wishes, fuck, pleads the universe for Matsukawa to appear and drag him out of this conversation. “Look, it’s not—”

“I thought I could always count on you,” Oikawa whispers, but it could have been a scream for all that it deafens Takahiro to the world. Oikawa sighs, and tears his gaze from Takahiro, leaving him motionless and cold. “It’ll be better if you don’t come tonight.”

But what about Matsukawa?, Takahiro wants to ask. Don’t let him go through that torture alone, please.

Takahiro’s lips don’t move, though. He wants to scream at Oikawa for the unfairness of his request, for the pain his words have inflicted, but there’s no strength left. Takahiro’s heart is dripping, piece by piece, once again. The thought Oikawa’s not good for his health is stupid enough to force breath back in, a second too late. Takahiro stares at Oikawa, stepping on the train and driving away.

He can’t feel his fingers when he takes his phone out and, shakily, types a desperate text to Matsukawa.

 

 

The flickering light of the TV shadows the room and paints Takahiro’s face in whites and blues. He’s been staring at it for hours, not really watching whatever’s playing. It’s only past twelve, but eternities go by faster. Takahiro sniffs, a thoughtless action he’s been doing since he managed to catch the right train and make it back home. He can’t recall the streets he’s walked through or taking his clothes off, but here he is, blanket over blanket around his shaking body. Matsukawa hasn’t texted back, yet.

Takahiro oughtn't to feel so numb. Lonely, yes, but this dissociation he’s having with his body and the tight feeling in his chest isn’t right. Takahiro congratulates himself for at least _knowing_ that, even when there’s no plan in his foreseeable future to change that. Being emotionally disconnected is better than feeling the absolute loss of his oldest, most important friendship.

Another sniff, a bit harder this time. Takahiro’s barely aware of a pounding in his head, probably the inevitable headache of his broken heart. It takes him almost two minutes before he realizes it’s not _in_ him but, rather, around him.

“Hanamaki! You better not be dead in there or I’ll kill you!”

Takahiro thinks, _Oh_ , and something in his chest stirs, like a cat finally waking. He drags his feet to the door, opens it a bit and sighs so big and so loud at the sight of Matsukawa’s worried face, it almost knocks him off his feet.

“Issei…” he whispers. The sound of his voice surprises him. It’s haunted and small and contained, and before he knows what’s happening, Matsukawa Issei is around him, caging Takahiro’s trembling body in his iron hug. His arms circle him back of their own volition. “Issei, what have I done?”

“Sshh. Come here. I’m sorry it took me so long to come. You’re shaking like crazy.”

Takahiro doesn’t recognize the strangled sound that comes out of his throat. Matsukawa tightens his hug when he hears it, lips on Takahiro’s hair. It’s strong enough to break Takahiro in half. Strong enough to hold him even if he breaks into a million pieces.

The first sob is a surprise, but once the door opens Takahiro has no way to shut it. He closes his eyes and holds Matsukawa tight enough for the trembles of Takahiro’s desperation to become a part of him. Matsukawa rocks Takahiro, clutching harder and harder. If Takahiro’s ribs don’t break it’s only thanks to the power of stubbornness.

“Shh, shh. I’m here with you, okay? You’re not alone. We’ll make it through this. I promise.”

Takahiro cries harder at the sound of that, so relieved he doesn’t know how to stop the infinite flow of his sadness.

 

 

Matsukawa puts Takahiro into his bed, just how he did yesterday night. Takahiro’s cotton brain can’t comprehend the short span of time that has gone by between the happy feeling of Matsukawa taking care of his sick body, and this renewed broken heart. Takahiro’s fed water, tons of water. For the dehydration, Matsukawa says, but Takahiro wasn’t planning on complaining. He’s not sure he will be able to use his voice any time soon. His throat is on fire.

There are also soft caresses on his cheeks. It takes Takahiro a bit to understand his eyes, as swollen and painful as they feel, haven’t yet stopped tearing up. His face has never felt as physically numb as now.

“Is it okay if I stay?” Matsukawa asks in a low voice.

“Please.”

They’ve never cuddled. Neither Takahiro nor Matsukawa are the cuddling type, and when they sleep in the same bed they more often than not end up sprawled on top of each other, if they haven’t kicked the other off the mattress through the night.

It is not their thing, but as soon as Matsukawa gets in the bed, he grabs Takahiro with care and pulls him to his chest. Takahiro sniffs soundly, unblinking against the heat of Matsukawa’s collarbone.

“You deserve a bit of caring,” Matsukawa explains. “Can’t promise I’ll be able to hold you once I fall asleep, though. I’ll probably end up throwing you off the bed,” he jokes. Takahiro wants to laugh and show him he’s better, but the only thing he can manage is a nod. He snuggles closer, gluing his front to Matsukawa’s side.

“Thanks,” he mutters, hoarsely. Matsukawa’s arm tightens around his shoulders, a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry I left you alone there.”

The way Matsukawa tenses all over makes Takahiro look up at him, surprised. There are angry lines around his eyes when he answers Takahiro’s stare. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I was worried,” Takahiro confesses. “It’s bad enough that I—”

Matsukawa’s thumb draws circles on Takahiro’s temple. “Thanks. It wasn’t—” Matsukawa sighs, closing his eyes and groaning low. Takahiro’s fascinated by how nice the vibration feels against his skin and bones. “I might have scolded them. Oikawa, specifically.”

“Scolded,” Takahiro repeats, astounded. “As in, _you are grounded_ sort of scold?”

“As in,” Matsukawa chews, “ _you are a selfish prick and you should go and apologize to him_ sort of scold.”

“Oh,” Takahiro says, and Matsukawa chuckles. “That’s not good.”

There’s a long silence before Matsukawa says, voice restrained, “He broke something in you, Hiro. I mean, I guessed he’d hurt you, but the way you…” Matsukawa shifts on the bed and faces Takahiro. They are forehead to forehead, legs tangled, when Matsukawa whispers, “The way… I still can feel your sobs against me. Now I regret not being harsher.”

Takahiro hums low in his throat, and instead of focusing on the important parts of that confession, he asks, “Hiro?”

Matsukawa’s blush is instant and sweet. Takahiro’s annihilated butterflies twitch zombie-like. “Too pretentious?”

“No. I like it. _Hiro_. It almost sounds like you are calling me _hero_. Which I am. Fitting.”

Matsukawa snorts, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. Takahiro doesn’t miss the way his arms pull him closer to his chest, nesting him. Takahiro’s body vibrates with warmth.

“Are you gonna keep calling me by my given name?” Matsukawa asks after a bit. Takahiro has to blink himself off from sleep before he frowns, not understanding. “At the door, you— forget it. Go back to sleep.”

The mess of Takahiro’s mind needs a minute to catch with everything that has happened today. “Ah. I did call you Issei, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Matsukawa says, doubtfully. “It’s okay. Forget I asked.”

“I like it,” Takahiro says instead, and Matsukawa’s blush is now eclipsed by his pleased smile. “First name basis. That’s a high-level friendship.”

“We are already sharing night-long hugs.”

Takahiro needs a second to remember, but he laughs softly when it finally comes back to mind, ignoring the pain in every one of his muscles. “We are indeed. Well, well, you’ve finally managed the most sought token of friendship. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It was hard work, but it was worth it.”

Their chuckles die soon enough, though. Matsukawa sighs, moving to make Takahiro lean more comfortable against him. His hand finds its way into Takahiro’s hair, caressing soothingly until Takahiro’s muscles suddenly relax.

The moment feels perfect. Charged, some way Takahiro can’t properly pinpoint out, heavy with the reality of Takahiro’s bleeding feelings, but perfect. Matsukawa’s body melts the cold of Oikawa’s words out of Takahiro’s mind, and when he finally falls asleep, he dreams of nothing.

 

On Sunday, after a sad Saturday of not leaving the bed, Matsukawa finally drags Takahiro out of the apartment. A movie, dinner out and then back to the cave, where he can mop for a bit longer. Takahiro complies because Matsukawa has spent two days caring for him and because Takahiro’s scared shitless of being left alone.

“This is not the kind of movie you pay a cinema ticket to watch,” Takahiro says on the line to buy the tickets to a movie he would have never paid to watch before. “You wait until it comes out so you can rent it.”

“If you can’t appreciate the beauty of watching things explode in surround sound then this friendship is doomed and should be terminated.”

“I’m sad for your life.”

Matsukawa only snorts. They keep bantering for the ten minutes it takes for them to make it to the front line, and Matsukawa makes fun of Takahiro but lets him invite him. They haven’t talked about Oikawa yet today, and Takahiro’s nerves are as grateful as they are wrecked.

The movie is amusingly bad. Takahiro eats his popcorns and spends more time watching Matsukawa’s reactions, his eager expression, the way his body responds to what’s happening on screen, jumping, tensing, moving. He even gasps in shock a few times. Takahiro snickers, enjoying the whole experience three times more just because Matsukawa’s enjoying himself like a little kid at an amusement park.

Once out, Matsukawa talks and talks about the movie. It’s endearing, adorable, really. Matsukawa’s face lights up when he’s excited, his smile so big Takahiro wants to put his hands on his face and etch its shape into memory. He even has the dangerous urge to grab his hand while they walk to the diner. Takahiro’s shaken awake when that thought crosses his mind.

“Seriously. What a great movie.”

“It was an okay movie, I guess,” Takahiro says, trying to kick the idea of their hands tangled off of his head. “What are we eating?”

“Hamburgers.”

Takahiro doesn’t argue. The emptiness of his hands will ease as soon as they sit to eat. Their legs touch under the table, but at least Takahiro can hold his drink and keep his fingers occupied. Matsukawa leads the conversation, talkative and cheery. They make it to half of the meal before Matsukawa mentions the one who should not be named.

“Are you going to be okay when you see Oikawa tomorrow?” He says it to his plate, playing it cool and light. Takahiro grits his teeth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?” The stupid man is still speaking to his dead cow.

“Yes, Issei, I’m sure.”

The coldness in his tone catches Matsukawa’s attention. He stares up, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m just worried.”

“I’m fine,” Takahiro lies. He has barely touched his food as it is. The starting week feels like a curse. “I’ll be fine.”

Matsukawa nods and keeps eating, obviously not buying Takahiro’s bullshit. Well, that’s his loss. Takahiro’s planning on playing the _fake it till you make it_ until the end of his days.

“You remember the day we went out dancing?” Matsukawa asks out of the blue. Takahiro’s stomach turns. Of course he remembers. The way Matsukawa gave himself to Takahiro will forever be one of his favorite memories.

“Yeah, of course I do.” The confusion is as loud in his tone as little is his voice.

Matsukawa nods without answering his gaze. “You made me say what I wanted, remember?” Takahiro squints, not liking where this is going. “Takahiro?”

“I remember.”

Matsukawa’s eyes gleam when he finally answers Takahiro’s gaze. There’s a light of tender care, theere. Takahiro can’t swallow past the knot in his throat. “I’d love for you to tell me what you want, too,” Matsukawa says, soft and slow. Takahiro’s thankful for that, since the mad speed of his heart wouldn’t have let him hear him otherwise.

“I already do,” Takahiro says, purposely missing the point.

Matsukawa’s smile is knowing. He takes a huge bite, buying them both a few moments of silence. Takahiro sips on his drink, his own hamburger already cold.

“Hiro.” The pet name is unfair. “Would you please tell me what you need, so I can give it to you? It doesn’t have to be now,” he adds, lips tightening for a second. “Whenever you need it, whenever you’re ready. Just… promise me?”

Takahiro’s having problems breathing. He wants to tell Matsukawa to go to hell, to list all the times Takahiro has expressed what he wanted of him, but he knows those really aren’t what Matsukawa’s requesting. His chest feels open and exposed, vulnerable to every eye in the room.

Takahiro shrinks into himself, closing his body, hiding. He trusts Matsukawa, he reminds himself. He’s trusted him since the beginning. The ignored text from when they first met still hurts, if only shallowly. Matsukawa has proven himself to Takahiro over and over. Promising this is the least he can do, even more so knowing the carer in Matsukawa’s probably having a stroke with Takahiro’s inability to let himself be cared for.

“I promise,” he mutters finally. “Whenever I’m ready,” he specifies, so Matsukawa’s expectations stay at their lowest.

“Thank you.”

They spend the rest of the meal in shared silence. Takahiro manages a few bites, some more smiles and even half a dessert. By the time they make it out back on the street the tension in Takahiro has lessened some. His hands are twitching again with the need to grab Matsukawa’s.

“Issei,” he whispers, halfway to the train station. The street is darkening, almost empty. Takahiro doesn’t dare look up at Matsukawa when he finally gives in and holds his hand, squeezing softly. “Can you…” _No, say it right._ “I want you to stay tonight again.” Taking a deep breath, Takahiro stares up at Matsukawa. The late light of sunset paints him with the prettiest of colors. “I want you to make me forget tomorrow exists.”

Matsukawa’s smile is warmer than the sun on Takahiro’s skin. “Deal.”

Takahiro’s hand is shaking so much he can’t let go of Matsukawa’s until they make it to the station.

 

 

And forget he does. Takahiro expected a lot of rough pulling and pushing around, as they usually do. He expected a hard hold against the door or the wall, even the floor, and Matsukawa forcing him into ecstasy.

Instead what Takahiro gets is a soft kiss when they make it home, on the lips, on his cheeks, on his nose. The tenderness of Matsukawa’s care can break him in half. Takahiro holds Matsukawa’s hands on his face and stares back at him, lost and raw.

“Go take a bath,” Matsukawa says at his bewildered expression. “You’re freezing. Bath, not only shower, okay?”

There’s no point on arguing. As soon as Takahiro entered the apartment the weight of being sick and heartbroken yet again falls on him like a blanket. He nods at Matsukawa, the thought of inviting him to bath together with a flicker that goes as soon as it comes.

Next time.

Takahiro soaks for a long time, the warmth of the water untying the knots in his muscles and the mess of his soul. He stares at his knees, popping out of the water like two little islands in a contained sea. The cold air on the wet skin is a nice contrast with the burning water.

He doesn’t bother putting on clothes, although he uses the fancy bathrobe his mom gave him three years ago and that Takahiro had used two times since.

Matsukawa’s on the couch, phone in hand. Takahiro has a long second of sunset light to study his concentrated frown, the little tip of his tongue darting out of his lips, the soft swell of his chest every time he draws in a breath. He looks comfortable and at home, huge in the small space Takahiro calls his. It hurts, the way he seems to fit so well in here. In Takahiro’s space. In Takahiro’s life.

“I’m done,” he says after some more staring. Matsukawa’s surprised gaze is wide and warm. “The water’s still hot, if you wanna…”

“I’ll just shower real quick.”

He’s up and past Takahiro before he finishes his sentence. Takahiro stays there, letting the threshold hold him. Matsukawa’s done before the last light shifts over Takahiro’s living room, finally darkening the apartment. Takahiro’s limbs are so heavy he doesn’t have it in him to move and turn on the lights.

“Your hair’s still wet. Come here.”

He takes Takahiro by the elbow, leads him to the bed, forces him to sit. Takahiro complies like a doll, eyes never leaving his best friend, chest bare and towel covering his hips. He plugs the hairdryer and sits behind Takahiro, and with a soft touch of his fingers, he dries his hair. It’s short enough it doesn’t take long, but Matsukawa keeps the caress to Takahiro’s scalp, around his ears, down his neck. It feels so good Takahiro’s moaning after just a minute.

“Lay down,” Matsukawa whispers on his ear.

Takahiro complies, pliable, almost passive. Matsukawa lays beside him, hands roaming, opening the bathrobe, caressing his chest, the hollow of his neck, his collarbones, his ribs. It’s slow and tentative, a sort of learning they’ve never done before. Takahiro’s so fascinated by it all he can’t manage a word of complaint. He doesn’t even know if he has anything to complaint about, although this feels too intimate even for them.  

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Takahiro says, hoarsely. His eyes are glued to Matsukawa’s face, chasing every change, every twitch, every gleam in his eyes. Takahiro’s learning him through Matsukawa’s own explorations of Takahiro’s body. It’d be overwhelming if Takahiro’s mind weren’t as overworked as it is.

After a while Matsukawa’s hands grow bolder, hungrier. He pushes Takahiro’s robe off his shoulders, unties it where it holds on his waist. It opens as if it were Takahiro’s skin and Matsukawa were peeling it off, searching for the truth underneath. As if Takahiro were truly shedding his lies, the second the robe falls on his sides he shudders, scared of whatever Matsukawa will think of what he sees now.

“If there’s something you want, you tell me, okay?” Matsukawa asks, eyes following every line of Takahiro’s body.

Takahiro only manages to nod before Matsukawa leans forward and kisses his neck, sucking slightly. The moan is brief, but it’s soon followed by another, and then another when Matsukawa’s hands start their roaming again, his body shifting on top of Takahiro’s.

The weight grounds him, the skin Matsukawa wets with his tongue over-sensitive when he moves on, letting the cold air caress it in his place. Through the thick fabric of the towel Takahiro feels Matsukawa’s cock, softly grinding against his. There’s no demand in his movements, the light pressure of his hips only offering, only pleasuring. Takahiro melts under Matsukawa’s care, kiss by kiss. His neck arches under his mouth, his chest swells under his hands, his legs open and make room for him, never wanting to let him go.

There’s something heavy inside Takahiro’s thorax, as if he weren’t breathing properly. It tightens when Matsukawa tires of his neck and finds his mouth, kissing him desperately. It starts to beat of its own accord when Matsukawa’s hands draw his nipples, pinch them, touch every single one of his ribs, as if memorizing them. It grows and grows, fed by the care of Matsukawa’s touch.

“Issei, I need—”

“Yes. Tell me,” Matsukawa gasps in Takahiro’s mouth, unable to move away from his lips. His tongue plays with Takahiro’s, fucks his mouth hard enough for Takahiro to squirm. “Tell _me_ ,” he orders.

“More. I need more,” Takahiro moans, hand in Matsukawa’s hair, the other down his back and under the towel to grab his ass and press him closer. Their cocks rub against each other, Takahiro’s so hard he can’t believe it’s been unattended all this time. “Take this shit off.”

“Take it off for me. I’m busy.”

Takahiro tears it from his hips after some frustrated pulls, throwing it on the floor. He groans low in his chest when their naked cocks brush. He’s breathing against Matsukawa’s kiss, leaning on Matsukawa’s hands. Matsukawa’s touch is the water Takahiro didn’t even know he was dying from being denied. The thirst is now a wave overtaking him, controlling his every move. He kisses and kisses Matsukawa, never getting enough. The way their mouths connect should ring danger bells in his brain, but Takahiro can’t think of that now. He only wants this. He only wants Matsukawa to keep touching him, to keep owning him.

“Fuck, Issei, _do_ something,” Takahiro pleads, feet on the back of Matsukawa’s thighs, hips off the bed, rocking against Matsukawa’s cock.

Matsukawa’s too lost on Takahiro’s body to even laugh at his desperation. He drinks Takahiro in, hand on his neck keeping him rooted to the bed, his right hand going down Takahiro’s chest, past his navel, into…

They both moan when Matsukawa cages their cocks in his hand, wetting them with their precum. Takahiro whimpers softly, moving his hips, sliding his cock in and out of Matsukawa’s grip. After a second, Matsukawa copies him, falling into a stuttering rhythm, their cocks gliding inside Matsukawa’s hold.

Takahiro’s legs open wider, Matsukawa moves harder against him. They are both gasping into each other, their mouths locked, kissing shallowly while trying to catch their breaths. Takahiro’s head is a mist of sensations, of Matsukawa everywhere, in his skin, in his lungs, in his chest.

“Fuck, Issei, fuck me harder,” Takahiro moans, whimpers, whines, he doesn’t know. His voice is alien to him, the need in it completely new. Matsukawa leans back a bit, grounding his hips, his grip loosening to let his own cock slip free. “ _Issei!_ Take that ba— _fuuuck_ ,” Takahiro arches on the bed, held by Matsukawa’s hand on his neck, when Matsukawa’s cock brushes against his balls, clumsily gliding against his cock. Takahiro’s heavy-lidded eyes are on Matsukawa’s expression, the half-open mouth, now red and bruised by Takahiro’s kiss. The look of pleasured concentration he’s wearing makes something hot and wet burn down in Takahiro’s stomach. “Fuck,” he moans again. Matsukawa pushes on him, widening his legs. Takahiro’s hand closes on Matsukawa’s shoulder, hard. “Rub it.”

“Where?” Matsukawa pants, eyes on Takahiro’s cock.

In answer, Takahiro pushes his legs up on the bed, opening himself. Matsukawa stops moving altogether for a long second.

His eyes are burning when they fall on Takahiro’s one second before he grabs his hips, turns him around on his face, and puts his cock between Takahiro’s asscheeks, rubbing his cleft. Takahiro moans, loudly, and he fists the sheets till his knuckles turn white when Matsukawa, always the teaser, lets the head of his cock softly probe on his entrance.

They’ve never done this. It felt like taking it a step too far.

But now Takahiro wants to stretch to the nightstand, grab the lube and beg Matsukawa to fuck him until he can’t walk tomorrow.

“Shit. Issei, I need—”

Takahiro’s thrown on his back again before he can finish his sentence. Matsukawa’s on him, plastered to his skin from thighs to chest. “Not today. If you still want it,” Matsukawa pants, arms shaking from supporting his weight, “I’ll give it to you. But not today.”

Takahiro looks at him for a second, and then nods. “Fine. Fuck my thighs, then.”

Matsukawa kisses him, long and thorough, and pushes them on their sides. He lays on Takahiro’s back, fingers like iron on Takahiro’s jaw to keep their mouths locked, his other hand on Takahiro’s cock. Their tongues tangle in a mess of moans and groans when Matsukawa’s cock slides between Takahiro’s closed thighs, fucking his skin and his mouth and his soul.

“Faster,” Takahiro pleads, hand on Matsukawa’s ass to force him closer, to keep him moving. “Fuck me faster.” Matsukawa’s hips follow his demand, and so does his hand. Takahiro’s chest swells, the unknown being in there growing until it fills every space in him. The pleasure of feeling Matsukawa all around him, his hand stroking hard and fast, wet with Takahiro’s precum, Matsukawa’s own cock coming in and out of Takahiro’s thighs, finally does it. “Fuck, yes,” Takahiro moans, coming hard and hot on Matsukawa’s hand, on the bed. “ _Issei_.”

Matsukawa groans and comes at the sound of his name, his cum mixing with Takahiro’s on the sheets.

They lay tangled together, panting and sweaty in the cold air. Takahiro closes his eyes and breathes in, spent. The thing in his chest is still swirling, alive, hungry. Apparently having an amazing orgasm can’t quiet down some demons.

“Ugh, I don’t want to move.”

Takahiro looks down at his belly, where Matsukawa’s hand is caressing his skin, thoughtless. If there are tears in Takahiro’s eyes when he puts his on top of Matsukawa’s and tangles their fingers, bringing their hands to his lips and kissing Matsukawa’s, it means nothing. He’s just tired, and happily satiated. His tearing eyes are just a side effect of a really trying weekend.

“Then don’t,” Takahiro says after a bit, when it makes no sense anymore, when Matsukawa has almost drifted off already. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

Takahiro can’t fall asleep, even to that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ｡ﾟ( ﾟஇ‸இﾟ+)ﾟ｡


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, one more week! Next chapter will be the last, followed by an epilogue. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and comments!

If Takahiro has to endure one more shop decorated christmassy with its annoyingly loud carols and the blinking lights, he will go into a rampage and kill everyone.

He looks at Matsukawa, who’s having the time of his life. Something in his chest stirs, that stupid cat from some nights ago idly purring, waiting for anything to happen, claws ready. Takahiro’s eyes try to jump away from Matsukawa’s excited face, but it’s to no avail. The cat in his chest meows, and Takahiro’s heart stutters.

Fuck.

If only he could go and see Oikawa, he’ll remember how much in love he is with him and this stupid living thing in his chest would finally vanish.

Since they are currently on a strict no speaking regimen, Takahiro can only pray for the damn cat to starve to death.

“I thought we came out to pick up my friend’s present,” Takahiro says, voice catching. Anything to break this stupid spell.

Matsukawa dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “I need a tree for my apartment.”

“What the heck do you need a tree for?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“You’re Buddhist.”

Matsukawa doesn’t seem to mind about that. He walks further in, laughing at the most horrid, stupid decorations he can find. Takahiro follows him because they came out together and because seeing him enjoying himself with something so simple does things to his belly. _Bad_ things Takahiro can’t but revel in.

After half an hour, though, Takahiro has to end the dream.

“We really should be going. The shop closes in twenty minutes,” Takahiro says, apologetic. Matsukawa’s staring at some small trees, thoughtful. “I can go on my own and meet you here, if you want.”

“Do you like this tree?” Matsukawa asks, instead of answering. Takahiro blinks slowly, then turns to face the tree, eyebrow arched. “Like it or not?”

“It’s a Christmas tree,” Takahiro says, as if Matsukawa’s brain isn’t at its full capacity. “They all look the same.”

“They do not. That’s blasphemy.”

Takahiro snorts. “It’s a nice tree, I guess. What do you care what I think, anyway? It’s _your_ tree.”

Matsukawa shrugs it off. “You spend a lot of time at my place. It’s just fair you like it too.”

That makes absolutely no sense, but Takahiro can’t bring himself to say it. There’s heat creeping up his neck, his heart beating faster than it should. He mumbles, “It’s a nice tree.” And Matsukawa’s smile breaks free.

Thank god it’s a small one too, because otherwise, they’d spent the night carrying a big ass piece of wood around.

Matsukawa pays and they make it to the other shop ten minutes before it closes. Matsukawa lingers on the window displays while Takahiro picks up Kyoutani’s present, charm and smile on place. They do remember him yelling at them for their fuck-up on schedule, but Takahiro’s good manners earn him a smile in return, and no additional fees to pay for his previous rudeness.

Matsukawa’s waiting for him, eyebrow up in a nice arch, when Takahiro makes it back outside.

“What?” he says innocently.

“You played that girl like a violin.”

“I don’t play the violin,” Takahiro says, watching Matsukawa, beaming. “I play the cello.”

Matsukawa blinks slowly at that. “You do?”

The surprise in his voice is a caress. Takahiro chuckles. “Yeah. My parents were pretty adamant on it. My sister plays the violin, my brother the viola…”

There’s a mix of amusement and bewilderment in Matsukawa’s eyes when he asks, “Are they trying to build an orchestra?”

“I hope not. Two siblings are enough, thank you very much.” Matsukawa shakes his head at Takahiro’s grin, but his lips draw a mirroring smile shortly after.

They are the first to arrive at the izakaya, so they wait outside, bantering and joking. Takahiro has his hands in his pocket, the emptiness of his cold fingers tempting him to reach for Matsukawa’s. It’s just the cold air, nothing else. It’s just an impulsive, reckless thought that Takahiro can’t allow himself. Here, where everyone can see them. Here, where it will mean something more than Takahiro intends.

Matsukawa has his tree under his arm, held between his elbow and his side. Every time he turns he hits some passerby with it, and every time Takahiro laughs at him. He almost loses his footing when the tree hits Watari right on the face.

“Ouch! That thing is dangerous,” Watari says, rubbing his nose. Takahiro’s laughing so hard he has tears in his eyes. “Stop laughing at me, you jerk. Man, you could use that as a weapon, you know?”

“I’m so sorry!” Matsukawa’s eyes are wide, darting from Watari to Takahiro’s now bent form, hands up. “I shouldn’t have bought it today. Bad idea.”

“Of course it’s a bad idea. You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“We will this year,” Matsukawa tells him. “You said so, remember?”

Takahiro does, now. His heart misses a beat, and the cat in his lungs stretches, alert.

“Right,” he says even though his mind is yelling _WRONG, WRONG, MAYDAY, ABORT MISSION, ABORT FUCKING MISSION_. “Of course we are.” He can see Watari’s eyebrows raising to unachieved heights at that, his eyes so big and focused on Takahiro they are almost a real touch.

“Well.” Watari stretches the _e_ so much Kyoutani arrives before he finishes the damn word.

“Well, what?”

“Kyoutani! Happy birthday!” Watari pats him in the back, hard, a smile so big and shiny on his face it’s brighter than the izakaya’s lights.

“Happy birthday,” Takahiro choruses, a smile of his own. “You look old and decrepit.”

“Thanks. You don’t look like shit anymore.” Takahiro gets in return. Kyoutani stares up at Matsukawa then, offering his hand. “Matsukawa, right? Nice to meet you. Kyoutani Kentarou.”

Matsukawa shakes his hand. “Happy birthday, and likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Kyoutani’s eyes are on Takahiro when he says, “Me too. Tons of things.”

Takahiro wants to squirm under the weight of his gaze, but he’s taller and older than the fucker, so he stays put and forces a sly smile. Who cares if Kyoutani knows too much about everything? Who cares if he’s Takahiro’s… what, third best friend? Sometimes it feels as if Kyoutani’s the only one, because he’s the only one Takahiro doesn’t lie to. Or, if he does, he’s the only one that always catches him.

He’s also the only one Takahiro hasn’t engaged in a romantic or sexual relationship with.

“Let’s get in,” Takahiro mumbles, walking away from the three of them.

They find a table on the back. Takahiro pushes Matsukawa in a booth and sits beside him right after. Kyoutani snorts but says nothing. They order. Only drinks, no food, since Kyoutani has some plans for dinner. Takahiro wants to probe, but something about the way Kyoutani’s looking at Matsukawa keeps him from doing so.

It’s so normal. Matsukawa fits right in, joking about Kyoutani’s growls and the murderous gaze he puts on as soon as Watari, as cheerful as an innocent child, asks about his work and his birthday and his life in general. Takahiro loves seeing Kyoutani growl and snarl while answering every one of Watari’s questions. It’s the love in the man’s eyes, Takahiro’s sure. No one can say no to Watari’s honest, caring gaze, even if he’s a bit of a dick sometimes. Even Matsukawa’s a bit charmed by it after only ten minutes. The man has some skills.

“So, you are a doctor, right?” Matsukawa asks Kyoutani after Watari finishes their high school stories. Matsukawa’s laugh at the description of Kyoutani’s weird hair and worse attitude lingers in the air.

“Yup.”

“That’s amazing,” Matsukawa says as he leans forward, arms on the table. Takahiro looks at the back of his neck with an amused smile. “Must have been hard to get there.”

Kyoutani shrugs. “Not harder than any other career. Whatcha do, by the way? Hanamaki never mentioned it.”

“I’m an engineer.”

“Cool,” Watari whistles. “What specialty?”

“Renewable energies.”

Takahiro can feel pride change his gaze, still glued to Matsukawa’s nape. God, he wants to put his hand there and squeeze, that big it hits him.

Since he can’t, he says instead, “He spent a couple of years abroad.”

Is he bragging? About Matsukawa's _achievements_? Jesus. He’s really losing his mind.

Takahiro’s eyes tear from Matsukawa’s back and fall on Kyoutani’s knowing gaze. _Shit_. There’s a pool of dark understanding there Takahiro has no time, and less need, to face.

“You did? Man, that’s so great! I’ve always wanted to live abroad, but I never seem to find the time,” Watari is saying, but Takahiro’s brain is half listening to his conversation with Matsukawa. There’s a loud drum in his ears, probably his blood flowing as fast as it can to finally kill his heart.

Kyoutani’s eyes are still on him. His arms are crossed and his lips are pressed and Takahiro sees the gleam of intent a second too late. Before he can say anything to shut Kyoutani up, he asks, “And how did you meet Iwaizumi, Matsukawa?”

The damn bastard is lucky there’s a table between them. “What the fuck is with that question?”

Matsukawa looks at him over his shoulder, frowning. “I don’t mind. It’s not such a weird question.” His eyes stay on Takahiro a second longer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” But Takahiro says that to Kyoutani, whose attention has already shifted places and is back on Matsukawa. Takahiro’s breath is coming out harsh, his heart hitting his ribs with strength and pain. He listens to Matsukawa answer Kyoutani, knowing his stupid friend will notice how Matsukawa’s shoulders slag, how his hands are tangled and twitchy on the table.

Takahiro can’t but hate the fact Kyoutani will see, and then he will assume too much, too wrong.

“We met in high school, actually. Same class first year. Became friends, then started volleyball together. We’ve been teammates since then, even when we went to different universities.”

“You play too? It must be fate,” Watari says. Matsukawa smiles at him.

“Life’s full of surprises.”

“You bet,” Kyoutani mutters, eyes on Takahiro.

The conversation jumps to less life-threatening topics, thanks to Watari, of course. At least Kyoutani keeps himself from asking any more fucking weird questions or pointing out everything he’s already making a show of seeing. When Matsukawa goes to the bathroom after half an hour, Takahiro wastes no time to throw himself over the table.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Kyoutani hisses back. “Now I understand why you kept him hidden all this time.”

“Fuck you. I wasn’t hiding him.”

“No. You were hiding _with_ him.”

“Kyoutani,” Takahiro says, pleads, God, who the fuck knows. His voice is choked when he adds, “Please, don’t.”

“When were you gonna mention you’re not talking to Oikawa?”

Takahiro’s heart stutters. “ _He_ isn’t talking to me.”

“Didn’t answer the fucking question, did you?”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t fucking know. What do you want?”

Watari is watching them with a frown and worry all over his face. It’s a shock when he’s the one to whisper, “We just want you to be happy, Hanamaki. You’ve been… you haven’t been yourself for so long…”

“I’m fine. I _am_ ,” he insists at Kyoutani’s skepticism. “Don’t you see me happy?”

“I see you better,” Kyoutani agrees. “But not _happy_. Not talking to Oikawa is bad. That together with the fact you failed to even _mention_ it kind of makes me think you aren’t as okay as you say.”

“Oikawa is pissed at me because I fell in love with him and couldn’t cope, okay? Happy now?”

“Weird, ain’t it?” Kyoutani’s lips retract, just a bit, enough for his canines to show. “Your friendship didn’t even flinch for a fucking year, but the second Matsukawa comes into the picture, everything goes to shit.”

“What the hell does that mean? It’s not Matsukawa’s fault, what the fuck, Kyoutani?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Kyoutani shakes his head. “The man’s okay, but I honestly couldn’t give a fuck about him right now. I care about _you_.”

“Can you please be a little bit more cryptic? That’d surely make me understand whatever nonsense you’re spitting.”

Kyoutani leans forward. “Want it clearer? Here you have it. You’re clinging to a dead body, Hanamaki. Fucking let go already.”

It makes absolutely no sense, and yet, the moment the words register Takahiro’s mind shuts down, a loud buzzing taking over his thoughts. He stares at Kyoutani, trying to understand, failing miserably.

“What…?”

But Matsukawa comes back from the bathroom right then. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Takahiro rushes at the same time as Kyoutani announces, “I have to go.”

They stare at each other, tension building around the table. “Happy birthday,” Takahiro mumbles. Kyoutani’s words are still bouncing in his mind, reminding him this conversation is far from over. He adds, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Kyoutani’s eyes dart to Matsukawa for a fraction of a second. “Yeah, you will.”

They say their goodbyes, and leave a little bit later. It’s only when they make it to the street Takahiro realizes he hasn’t given Kyoutani his gift.

It falls on him with a numb pain.

“Wanna go to my place?” Matsukawa asks, tearing Takahiro from his mind. He shakes the tree in explanation. As if Takahiro needs a reason to go to his place beyond wanting to spend time with him.

Takahiro looks at Matsukawa, knowing his eyes are showing more than he’d like. He studies his scarf, the red tip of his nose, the smile that’s small and huge at the same time, the way his eyes are so full of everything. The damn cat purrs in his chest, scratching Takahiro’s insides with its claws. He should say no. He should go home and attend to his emotional wounds on his own.

But he wants to say yes so badly it scares him. He doesn’t want to be alone but, more than that, Matsukawa’s presence soothes his pains and his inherent loneliness. Takahiro doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he wants to. Putting labels on his emotions hasn’t worked especially well before.

“Let’s go.”

Takahiro’s hand is in his pocket, but in his mind, he’s holding Matsukawa’s tightly.

  
  


They put the tree the next day.

Well. Matsukawa puts it, decorates the house with the three other Christmas-y stuff he bought, and looks at it with a really smug, really pleased look.

It might be that look, or the fact Takahiro’s chest aches still. It doesn’t matter, really. Takahiro decides he won’t let anything get the better of him today. Not Oikawa, not his own little hidden monsters, not anything that happens outside these walls. Life doesn’t exist beyond the Christmas tree, and the joy it brings Matsukawa.

“Next time you should buy a Christmas sweater to go with all this,” Takahiro tells him, eating a bunch of popcorns.

“Should I be bothered by those?” Matsukawa points at the bowl between Takahiro’s legs.

“Why? You want some?”

Matsukawa leans down and takes a bunch. With his mouth full, he says, “You made them to watch me mess it up, didn’t you?”

“Didn’t wanna miss the show.”

“How’s it so far?”

“Pretty good,” Takahiro says, licking his smiling lips.

“Are you calling me pretty?”

“Not you, compliment fisher. The tree. And the lights, which are falling down.”

Matsukawa grunts and spends half an hour trying to make them stick. After a lot of swearing, really ugly tape and some nudity, Matsukawa’s lights aren’t moving, and neither is he, laying right under his little tree.

He’s breathing hard enough for his chest to swell heavily with every breath he takes. Takahiro throws a popcorn at him, just to see it bounce on his naked chest and fall to the floor.

“Stop it. You’ll be the one cleaning.”

“I’m always the one cleaning, what are you getting at?”

Matsukawa chuckles, still out of breath. “Shit, never thought putting Christmas decorations could be this hard.”

Takahiro stares at Matsukawa’s closed eyes. He can’t help himself. “Not the only thing hard.”

“You hitting on me?” Matsukawa asks, eyes half open, eyebrow arched. Takahiro stands on his knees, leaves the bowl near the couch, and lets himself fall forward, hands beside Matsukawa’s head. “You lost something?”

“I think I did,” Takahiro mutters right before kissing Matsukawa, shallowly and teasing. “Mmmmh, nope, not here. Let me search further.”

He deepens the kiss, moaning when their tongues touch, loving the way they clash as if neither of them can have enough. Takahiro shifts, pushing himself across Matsukawa’s hips, straddling him. As soon as he moves on top of him, Matsukawa’s hands go to his hips, thumbing his hip bones. In his mouth, Takahiro gasps.

“If I knew decorating for Christmas would get you like this I’d done it sooner.”

“Fuck Christmas.”

Matsukawa laughs and moans as soon as Takahiro grounds his hips, grinding their hard cocks. Matsukawa’s hands are on his ass now, leading him, moving him. Takahiro can’t keep the smirk when he rolls his hips, Matsukawa arching under him.

“Hiro.”

“Yes, this is I, the hero here to save you.”

“Save me from what?”

Kissing a path down his neck and into his chest Takahiro says, “Blue balls.”

Matsukawa’s laugh echoes through his body, entering Takahiro’s, branding him. That laugh… it brings Takahiro literally to his knees.

“What are you…”

“You remember,” Takahiro says to Matsukawa’s navel. He buries his nose on his skin there, kisses the tempting trail disappearing under his pants. Matsukawa’s breath catches, “a long day back in September, when you saw me heartbroken and went down on your knees?”

Matsukawa’s eyes are burning with need and want when he looks down his chest at Takahiro.

“I’m not heartbroken now.”

“Potato patato.”

Matsukawa’s still laughing when Takahiro puts his cock into his mouth and turns that laugh into a long, pained moan. It becomes, right there and then, into Takahiro’s favorite sound in the whole world.

Although, granted, the way Matsukawa yells and whimpers Takahiro’s name when he finally comes hot against his throat is pretty great, too.

  


His conversation with Kyoutani still haunts him when Monday comes around. Takahiro moves like air is water and his limbs clumsy pieces of metal. He hasn’t slept in two days. The bags under his eyes will reach his lips soon if he doesn’t rest, but rest avoids him. No matter how much he tires himself working out, his eyes refuse to close, his brain refuses to shut down.

He misses Oikawa. A lot. He’d told Takahiro they didn’t talk anymore, but now that they really aren’t talking at all, the loss is a physical thing. A metal limb Takahiro has misplaced, unbalancing him even more.

It doesn’t help Matsukawa went to dinner with him and Iwaizumi last Friday. It was the first time they fought if Takahiro storming out of his house after calling him a fucking masochistic idiot counts as fighting. The loss of Matsukawa’s warmth at his back might have also affected his sleep, but _that_ Takahiro is not, and will not, acknowledge any time soon.

“Hanamaki-san, do you have a moment?” Takahiro blinks at his boss, nods, probably, since he keeps talking. “Come here a second. Sit, please.” Takahiro takes the more uncomfortable chair in the room. “Just had a call from the teaching department. Apparently, the students loved you. They want you to teach that class from now on.”

Takahiro stares at his boss’s smile, trying to understand. He thinks, _what?_ , and opens his mouth and says, “What?”

The smile falters. “Didn’t you like teaching? I thought you had a good time.”

“I did. I do. Wait. You mean, they are offering me a job? But I work here.”

“And you will continue here. The class takes roughly two couple of hours every week. If you’re up to it, we can make the proper arrangements so you can teach those while still keep your research going.”

Oh. This _is_ a good thing. Takahiro needs a moment to process that. “They liked me?” he asks with a small voice.

His boss is beaming now. “They _loved_ you. Apparently you were so good the students demanded for you to be their permanent teacher. Congratulations!”

Holy _shit_.

 

 

Matsukawa insists on going out to celebrate.

Takahiro doesn’t remind him they hadn’t seen each other for three days because he’s still mad at him for going to Oikawa’s. He clutches the phone closer to his ear, so relieved to hear Matsukawa’s joyful voice that his knees threaten to buckle.

“It _needs_ celebration,” Matsukawa says again. “This is such good news, Takahiro. I’m so proud of you.”

It feels too good to hear him say that. “Thanks. It totally took me by surprise.”

“You said you loved it,” Matsukawa reminds him. “And you’re smart as heck. I’m picking you up at six, okay? And we go have dinner. My treat.”

“Issei—”

Matsukawa’s voice is serious when he whispers, “We will talk about it later, okay? This deserves to be celebrated. Can we put it aside for a bit?”

“Yeah,” Takahiro answers, huskily. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be waiting by the uni’s door.”

The rest of Takahiro’s day passes in a flash. The temptation of walking to where Oikawa’s working and telling him is huge, but not as big as the fear shadowing it. Takahiro catches Oikawa staring at him once and again, but neither of them takes the first step.

So be it. Changes are changes are changes, right? Not everything can be one-hundred-percent good all the time.

Matsukawa’s grinning when Takahiro walks to him at six, nose buried in his scarf, hiding the tightness of his lips. It also prevents him from reaching forward and kissing him on the lips, which he shouldn’t even be thinking about.

“Well, hello there, professor.”

“Oh, shut up.” Takahiro rolls his eyes but leans on when Matsukawa puts his arm around his shoulders and squeezes. “Did you wait long?”

“Just got here.”

Silence settles between them while they walk to the station. Matsukawa’s arm stays for a bit too long around Takahiro’s shoulder, but leaves way too soon. Takahiro kicks the thought out of his mind. He wants to say something, but every time he opens his mouth it fills with apologies and nonsense, so he says nothing.

After a while it’s Matsukawa who, staring at him askew, says, “I thought you’d be happier.”

“I am really happy,” Takahiro says, too fast. Shit. Kyoutani’s cryptical words come again, hard. “It’s a big change. Good, except for the fact I’ll have to work three hours a day more. At least.” The thought is depressing.

“You’ll still work on your research?”

“Of course.”

A beat of silence. Takahiro knows what will come out of Matsukawa’s mouth before he opens it. “Did you tell—”

“I thought we were keeping it nice and happy for now. Leave all that aside for later?” Takahiro groans it through clenched teeth, harsher than he intended. Matsukawa’s half smile is unfair and sad, and now Takahiro feels like shit for putting it there.

“You’re right. Sorry.”

Takahiro shrugs. Somehow the weight of Oikawa’s absence in all its facets doesn’t fall from his shoulders. “It’s okay.”

“I am really happy for you, Hiro.”

Ah, how nice that sounds.

“I know.” Takahiro smiles at him. “Thank you.”

The dinner goes smoothly and perfectly. Matsukawa talks about his weekend, about the movies he’s watched lately. He makes fun of Takahiro, teases him, flirts with him. Their hands brush once or twice. Takahiro spends all dessert wondering if Matsukawa wants to hold his as much as Takahiro wants him to. If he does, though, he makes no attempts. Takahiro isn’t disappointed.

They decide to go drink something as an after the celebration. A hidden izakaya, dark and cozy. Takahiro has missed this too. He’s missing too many things, lately.

“Is it still not the right time?” Matsukawa asks. The way his lips draw a line speaks of apologies and determination.

Takahiro sighs. His chest weights like hundreds of tons of cement drying. “It probably never will.” He takes a long sip of his drink. “Go on, then.”

“You still mad?”

“Yes.”

“I really don’t understand why. Do you want me to talk to them? I can ask Oikawa to—”

“So you _ask_ Oikawa shit now?”

Matsukawa physically retreats. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t understand, Issei.” Now that the door is open, Takahiro has no grip on his anger. “Doesn’t it hurt you? Are you torturing yourself for a reason, or you just don’t care anymore?”

Matsukawa can’t answer his gaze. Takahiro’s stomach turns. Something’s off. “Issei?”

“I talked to Iwaizumi.”

There’s a long, long silence at that.

“What do you mean, you talked to Iwaizumi?” Matsukawa’s eyes are still everywhere but on him. “Talked about _what_?”

The first thing that comes to mind is him and Oikawa, about their fight, about the _why_. It makes Takahiro’s heart speed up and shoot adrenaline through his system, but deep down he knows. He knows it can’t be that, because Matsukawa would never betray him.

Somehow it hurts even more to hear him say, “I told him about my feelings. Told him I was in love with him.”

Thousands of replies come to mind, but the only thing Takahiro manages is, “When was this?”

Now he answers Takahiro’s gaze. “Don’t be mad. You’re already—”

“When the fuck was this?”

Matsukawa inhales, soundly. “Last Wednesday.”

Scratch that. Matsukawa _is_ capable of betraying Takahiro.

“Why?” he asks, small and shaky. He has to close his hands in fists to keep his fingers from trembling. Again, he asks, “Why, Issei?”, and the second time doesn’t clarify what the hell he’s asking.

“Because you’re already hurting enough.”

But aren’t friends supposed to be there for each other, no matter the hurt, no matter one’s pain? Takahiro doesn’t say that, but he knows the words are clear in his eyes.

“Takahiro—”

“No. I—” Jesus. This choking thing in his throat makes no sense. He has no right to be this mad about this, but god, he can’t swallow it down. “Are you okay?” he manages, hoarse and raw.

Matsukawa blinks. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am. It was… it wasn’t bad, Hiro. That’s why I didn’t…”

“Keep it. I really don’t wanna hear that. So, what, you told him you’re in love with him and then went for dinner two days later?”

“Oikawa isn’t the only one feeling neglected.”

Takahiro wants to point out _he is_ feeling pretty neglected right now, but since he’s not petty and he has still a bit of self-esteem left, he says, “I see. Really altruistic of you.”

“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t altruistic shit, okay? Can you stop for a second and listen to me?”

“I am.”

Matsukawa’s laugh is dry and short. “I’m telling you I am okay. It was _okay_ because I told him I _was_ in love with him.”

Takahiro frowns. “You just said that. What the fuck are you trying to get at?”

“Jesus. You can be so thick sometimes.”

“ _I_ am the one being thick? You went to your best friend and told him you are in love with him so he’d feel better at the expenses of your own sanity!”

“No, Takahiro! I went and told him I _was_ in love with him _before_ because now I’m in love with someone else and I can finally fucking move on!”

Takahiro’s brain short circuits and shuts down. There’s a cloud of white noise filled with _what?, what?, what?_ There’s no way he can process this. There’s no way he wants to process this. When the fuck did Matsukawa fall in love? Where was he? Has he missed it? Holy shit, he has, hasn’t he. It’s happening all over again. Best-friend. Overly-attached. Takahiro, being left behind.

The cat in his chest becomes a tiger and roars.

He can’t breathe.

“I need to get out of here.”

He hears Matsukawa call his name, reach for him. Takahiro can’t stop. If he stops moving his body will shut down and he will have to face Matsukawa, and Oikawa, and Kyoutani. He’s not ready for that. He can’t face a lonely life when he feels a breath from breaking.

He doesn’t realise he’s running his lungs out until his knees give under him. He falls like a drunk in the darkness, heaving painfully, knees bent in an awkward angle. He stares at the clouded sky, the promise of snow fattening it, turning the dark night into an orange promise.

The adrenaline fades with every breath he takes and, with it, the big cloud of emotional mess obscuring his thoughts.

He gets it, then.

“Oh shit,” Takahiro tells the night sky. “He’s in love with me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ॣ•͈૦•͈ ॣ)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since today is Matsukawa Issei's, aka the best boy, birthday I thought we all deserved this update. 
> 
> this is officially the last chapter, the 7th being the epilogue. 
> 
> as always, your comments and kudos make my day! i can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes me to know you enjoy this story <3

Kyoutani answers his door after three minutes of constant pounding. Takahiro knows, because he has counted every fucking second of it.

There’s no strength left in his body for him to stand straight, so he stays with his shoulder against the wall, temple brushing the threshold. Water drips from his wet hair into his neck. Takahiro would shudder if his body weren’t as numb to the cold as it already is to everything else.

There’s a shadow over Kyoutani’s eyes when he sees him. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Can I come in, please?” God, he hates how small his voice sounds, how empty.

Kyoutani’s frown doesn’t disappear when he steps to the side, giving Takahiro room to enter. Takahiro drags himself through the wall and into the apartment like the sad little thing he is.

“You look like shit.”

He feels like shit.

“I fell,” he explains, taking his soaked coat off. “Then it started snowing.”

“You lay there letting snow pile up on top of you or what?”

He did, actually. If he dares look at his feet they’ll probably be dead blue. Since he’s not in the mood to face the possible loss of any physical limb at the moment, he just kicks his shoes off and looks for a place to leave them.

That’s when he registers it. The number of coats and jackets hanging from the wall. The number of shoes neatly organized in a small shoe cabinet. He’s never pictured Kyoutani as a have-a-hundred-pairs-of-shoes kind of guy. Even less when half of them are pretty expensive, pretty fashion-y stuff.

“I thought you lived alone?” Takahiro finally asks. His eyes go back to Kyoutani and his crossed arms, the way his lips are pressed, his eyes avoiding Takahiro at all costs.

Takahiro’s starting to hate tonight with an intensity that scares him.

Kyoutani’s sigh is heavy and long and telling. “Come in. You’re soaked. And stink.”

“I do not.”

The apartment is neat and cozy. It smells of something sweet and clean, a mix of lavender and soap. There are plants, nice pictures on the walls and Kyoutani’s dog sitting in full attention beside the sofa, in his fluffy little bed.

“Hello, Devil.” Takahiro kneels, his hand in front of him. The dog sniffs it once before licking his frozen fingers. “Good boy,” he mutters, something fragile in his voice. Takahiro has the urge to crawl beside the dog and hug him until the tears in his throat knock him out. He can feel Kyoutani at his back, waiting for him. Takahiro pretends he’s giving him a moment of privacy to deal with the stupid thing in his eyes.

“Kentarou?”

There’s a beat of silence before Takahiro turns around, slowly. The tears are forgotten, and so is the big chunk of human heart freely moving around his chest. Takahiro’s still on the floor, eyes wide and hand wet. There’s a man on one of the doors. The _bedroom’s_ door, with wet hair and pajamas. Takahiro can’t tear his eyes off of him.

Kyoutani mutters, _fuck_ , and covers his face with his hand.

The man watches back at Takahiro, curious. Takahiro’s brain is having a bad time tonight, so it takes him a second before he turns to Kyoutani and squeals, “You have a _boyfriend_?”

Kyoutani almost tears the house down with his growl. “Goddammit.”

Said boyfriend steps forward, offering his hand just how Takahiro has offered his to the dog. He’s smiling, some amusedly wicked smile that contrasts sharply with Kyoutani’s grimace. Takahiro shakes his hand in a trance. There’s no way his eyes can move away from the man. The bastard is _handsome_.

_I really need to check myself. How the fuck didn’t I know he had a boyfriend?_

“I’m Yahaba Shigeru. And you are—?”

“Hanamaki Takahiro.”

Recognition flares in Yahaba’s eyes. “Oh. I know you.”

“Sadly for all of us,” Takahiro mutters, still fascinated with the man, “I can’t say the same thing.”

That seems to kick Kyoutani out of his silent shock. “Fuck, Shigeru, just get back in there, will you?”

Yahaba’s expression is mischievous when he leans back, arms crossed. “Why, Kentarou. I’d rather stay here.”

The murderous gaze Takahiro always makes fun of is now painting Kyoutani’s face. Takahiro stares at them both, eyes jumping from one man to the other. Yahaba leans his hip on the kitchen bar, answering Kyoutani’s stare without even a flinch. What an interesting pair they make.

“Why did I not know about this?” he asks to no one but himself.

“Yes, Kentarou.” Yahaba seems to enjoy saying his name. “Enlighten us.”

Kyoutani points a finger at his boyfriend. “Quit playing and go dry your hair before you get sick.” Yahaba snorts. “And you,” Kyoutani turns to point at Takahiro, still on the floor, “get your ass up and go shower before everyone in this household has to kill themselves because of your misery.”

“Fuck you, man.” But Takahiro goes to his feet. He really needs a shower before the cold in his skin starts to register. He’s come here for a reason, after all. Discovering Kyoutani is living with someone and that that someone is his _boyfriend_ won’t help keep his own secrets at bay for long. Kyoutani wouldn’t allow it, anyway.

Takahiro walks to what he assumes is the bathroom and turns around, wanting to say something, but falling short of words.

Yahaba smiles at him, candidly. “I’ll leave out a pair of sweats and a shirt.”

“Thanks. For that and letting me…”

“No problem. I’ll go make tea.”

Takahiro closes the door at the sound of Kyoutani’s, _so you make him tea but you won’t even make me dinner?_

It’s a quick shower because Takahiro has neither the time nor the strength to let himself soak on his long, long list of mistakes. He sends a glance to the bathtub, wishing it were full so he could dip in it and stay until his lungs gave up on him.

Instead, he finishes in two minutes, dries himself and puts on the clothes Yahaba has left for him outside the door. They are a bit small, the end of the pants coming up above his ankles. It’d be hilarious, but Takahiro’s too tired to laugh at anything.

There’s tea and some oranges waiting for him, together with Kyoutani and Yahaba, sitting close and comfortable on the sofa. There’s a ping of envy Takahiro has to swallow down.

“Sit,” Kyoutani orders.

Takahiro does on the floor, legs and arms under the kotatsu. His eyes look around, studying their apartment, the things that are Kyoutani’s, those that are Yahaba’s, the ones that are theirs. This is their little world, their safe space.

The pain shouldn’t be a surprise, but fuck, Takahiro was counting on his numbness to at least stay till the morning.

“Here, your tea.” Yahaba hands him a mug, warm and smelling delicious.

Takahiro’s hands are shaking when he takes it. “Thanks.”

“So?”

Takahiro’s gaze stays on the window, the waves of snow painting the outside white. He doesn’t want to speak, but he needs to. He doesn’t want to open up just for Kyoutani to kick him in the bared ribs with his too accurate, too real remarks, and yet, Takahiro has been under his blankets for way too long.

“If you’d rather I go…” Yahaba says, leaning forward.

Takahiro says to the window, “Matsukawa’s in love with me.”

Yahaba stills. Takahiro can see him looking down at Kyoutani through the reflection on the glass. There’s an overwhelming emptiness in his chest, keeping him from feeling anything properly. Takahiro thinks, _I left that stupid cat-thingy with Issei_ , and the mere thought is upsetting.

“And?” Takahiro meets Kyoutani’s eyes on the window. “You just figured it out, haven’t you.”

“Is that what you were trying to prove when we went out?”

Kyoutani shakes his head. “Not really.”

The heat of the mug is bordering into painful, but Takahiro can’t put it down. Somehow, with his blurry reflection on the window, with the numbness of his body, this small pained connection is the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Hanamaki. What happened.”

Takahiro takes a shaky breath, turns around, lets his forehead hit the warm wood of the kotatsu, closes his eyes. There’s a knot the size of his fist in his throat, and if Takahiro frees it, it will come out as a tearing sob. He’s tired of crying. He’s tired of feeling like his heart is ripped off his chest every time he fuckes up.

“Nothing. Everything. Who the fuck knows? He’s been going to Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s. He told Iwaizumi about his feelings. And I got mad, and I yelled at him, and then he said he’s in love with someone else and I didn’t get it. Fucking idiot. I just— I couldn’t breathe, so I ran, and then I stopped running and it finally hit me.” Takahiro bites his lip to calm the trembling. “I don’t understand how I’ve made such a mess of things.”

There’s a rumbling sound, a door closing. Takahiro takes in a long breath and finally leans back. Kyoutani’s on the other side of the kotatsu now. Alone. Looking back at Takahiro. There’s a burning care in his eyes, such determination and stubbornness Takahiro doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Fuck,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say.

Kyoutani nods. “Are you in love with him?”

Takahiro moans and covers his face with his trembling hands. “I can’t answer that right now.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

To his palms, Takahiro says, “The thing you told me. About the dead body. What do you mean? What the hell am I missing?”

“Goddamn, you can be oblivious to the bone when you want to be.”

That’s offensive. Takahiro grunts, but waits for Kyoutani to explain.

“You’ve been carrying around your love for Oikawa like a dead body for months. The damn thing died on your hands the second you learned Iwaizumi existed, but instead of letting it rot and fade, you clung to it and started wearing it like a fucking hat.”

Takahiro’s having trouble breathing. “That image is disturbing, and the fact you came up with it concerns me.”

“Whatever,” Kyoutani says, waving his hand. Takahiro watches him, wary. “My point being, you’re using your so called infatuation with Oikawa as a fucking excuse to not move on.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I’m not trying to comfort you,” Kyoutani replies, not unkindly. “This walking on the tips of your toes you’ve been doing has to stop. I don’t know why the fuck you were so against shit changing, but it has and now you have to face it. Jesus, you even got yourself a _man_ when you weren’t even trying.”

“Shit.” Takahiro takes a deep breath, drinks a sip of his tea. “I need to talk to Oikawa.”

“Yup. Should have done it months ago.”

But it’s not Oikawa’s face that comes to mind when silence falls between them. It’s Matsukawa’s, with his secret smiles and his knowing eyes. It’s the sound of his laugh and the pleas in the shape of Takahiro’s name and the way he’s been taking care of Takahiro since the very beginning. Takahiro closes his eyes and relishes the memories, dreading the thought of being too scared of facing him. He can’t lose Issei to his stupid indecisive ass.

“What do I do?”

Kyoutani’s too smart to not know who he’s talking about. “Fuck if I know.” Takahiro makes a strangled sound. “Talk to Oikawa, fix that first. You can’t walk forward if you don’t put an end to what you left behind.”

Matsukawa. Matsukawa has done that, because he wants a future with Takahiro.

There’s a prickling feeling in his stomach, a warmth in his chest. Takahiro blinks at the slowly fading numbness. The thing in his chest, the damn cat, is purring, a little curled thing behind his lungs, slowly waking.

“Okay.” The sip he takes is longer, now, the heat bringing his nerves back to life. He keeps the mug in front of his mouth when he says, “So, a boyfriend, huh?”

“Is there gonna be yelling now?”

“I want to.” Takahiro sighs. “Am I that bad?”

“At what.”

“As a friend,” Takahiro clarifies, another kind of pain that makes him grimace. “For you not to tell me. For me to not know.”

“I didn’t tell you because you were moping,” Kyoutani explains, eyes on the wall. “And then… Look, I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“It was. It’s also shitty because, apparently, no one thinks they can tell me shit when I’m hurt or moping or whatever the fuck I’m doing that it’s not me being happy. I can cope, okay? Why the fuck do you all believe I need to be protected?”

Kyoutani shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “I already said I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care. I wanna know. You, Matsukawa. Fuck, Oikawa’s probably the only one who doesn’t give a shit about that. He understands that friends tell each other whatever the fuck is happening, because you’re there for each other no matter what.” Takahiro registers his own words a second after he spits them. Well, hello to the hypocrite. “Fuck,” he says again, truly feeling it now.

“Cheers to that.” Kyoutani, like the asshole he is, clinks their cups and takes a long sip. “You staying the night?”

“I don’t want to impose,” Takahiro says, face again on the table, wanting to impose very badly.

Kyoutani stands up and goes to the bedroom. Takahiro doesn’t move when he hears him enter and close the door. The jealousy is there, but veiled. It’s not that Takahiro wants what they have, it’s the fact Takahiro has been enjoying it for a while, now. It’s the kind of jealousy that comes from knowing he might have fucked up the possibility to have it for the long haul.

After giving him time to mop for a little while, Yahaba and Kyoutani come out of the room. For the next hour, Yahaba delights Takahiro with tales of Kyoutani being awkward and rude and adorably uncomfortable while trying to ask Yahaba out. Kyoutani growls and groans through all the stories, but not even once does he try to shut Yahaba up. In fact, every time Takahiro’s attention focuses on him, Kyoutani’s expression is filled with love and adoration and an exasperated tenderness Takahiro didn’t know him capable of.

When Yahaba explains how Kyoutani fucked up their first date, Kyoutani stands and says, “This is my cue to leave. Devil, we’re going out.”

That makes something click in Takahiro’s brain. “I still have your birthday present!”

They both blink at him. Takahiro rummages through his back until he finds the wrinkled package. Kyoutani’s watching him funny when he hands it to him. “Happy birthday. Again.”

Kyoutani opens it in two tearing movements. A long, charged silence, and then, “It’s Devil,” he says with awe. “Hanamaki, this is beautiful.”

Takahiro beams. “I was assured it’s the best material. So you can wear it at work! And have your dog with you.”

It’s so unexpected, when Kyoutani grabs him and pulls him into an awkward hug, two pats on his back. Takahiro’s eyes fall on Yahaba, who’s wearing a pleased smile as he watches them. “Hope it fits you,” Takahiro says, hugging him back.

“Sure it does. Okay, I’m going. Devil, come.”

He’s out of the apartment in less than ten seconds.

“The levels of weirdness of that man…”

Yahaba laughs and helps him set the futon.

  


Takahiro calls Oikawa because he is a coward.

He also does it two days after leaving Kyoutani’s and Yahaba’s love nest because, on top of being a coward, he’s a masochist idiot.

Torturing himself with fantasies of being left alone, without neither Oikawa nor Matsukawa, has been an amazing way to spend his week.

There’s a long second of silence when Oikawa finally picks up. Then he spits, “What do you want, Makki? If you’re not dying, then I don’t care.”

“Where are you?”

“What do you care?”

Takahiro rolls his eyes, but asks, “Are you at home?”

“And what if I am?”

God, having a conversation with a pissed Oikawa is like trying to decipher a war code.

“Is Iwaizumi there?”

There’s coldness in his tone when he replies, “If Iwa-chan bothers you, Hanamaki, then there’s no point for this conversation.”

“Stop being so offended by everything I ask you, jeez. I want to talk to you, and I want it to be private. Chill out, man. One would believe I killed your dog or something.”

“You sort of did.”

That earns him a second of offended shock. “Did you just call me your dog?”

Oikawa hums, happy, and then says, “I’m home. Iwa-chan is having dinner out. I might even open the door if you come.”

“I swear, getting on your bad side is worse than having a fight with a petty five-year-old.”

“And don’t forget it.”

Despite himself, Takahiro’s smiling when Oikawa cuts the call after that.

Five minutes later, he’s at Oikawa’s door, knocking loudly. There’s a crashing sound, a soft curse and then Takahiro’s staring at Oikawa’s disheveled face.

“Makki? What the… oh, you little monster. You called me from the station, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Takahiro says with a smile. Shit, he has missed the idiot more than he thought. “Can I come in?”

Oikawa squints. “Maybe. Have you brought a present to earn your pass?”

Takahiro squares his shoulders. “Yes. My sincerest apology.”

A staring contest. Takahiro’s eyes are about to dry when Oikawa sighs and leans back. “Not expensive sake, but it’ll do. Come in. It’s freezing.”

The apartment has changed a bit since the last time he was here. There are new framed pictures, a cactus on the window, at least two dozen new books scattered around. Oikawa puts down his glasses on the table next to his research papers, covering the whole surface. Takahiro wants to ask about it. He wants to ask about the pictures on the fridge, and the dark circles under his eyes.

Instead, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?” Oikawa’s tone is dry. Takahiro looks back at him and says nothing. “Come on, Makki, you can do better than that.”

Oikawa’s words send a shiver down Takahiro’s back. “Better than sorry?”

“Better than lying to me. Just spit it out.”

“I already spat it out,” Takahiro says with resentment.

“Have you, now?” Oikawa crosses his arms, legs open, stance tense. He seems ready to physically fight Takahiro. “Huh, I had the impression you were only saying nonsense.”

“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?”

There’s a dangerous edge on Oikawa’s lips when he smiles. “My problem. Yes, as I seem to recall, my friend being a jerk _is_ my problem.”

“Fuck you,” Takahiro growls, heart beating at its maximum speed. He’s going to have a heart attack, but at least he’ll die knowing he’s just a bit less of a coward, for he says, “I was in love with you, okay? Are you happy now? I pinned over you like a fucking clueless schoolboy for a damn year.”

Takahiro doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but Oikawa sneering, “I _knew_ that,” with the wickedest, more scaring smile on Earth isn’t it.

He chokes when he mumbles, “You knew?”

Apparently Oikawa’s cool and chill pose only lasts so much. He throws his arms into the air with a really Oikawa-y flare, and then starts walking around like an unstoppable tornado.

“Of course I knew! I am _not_ that oblivious. And I tried so many times! I paved the way for you to tell me on hundreds of occasions. I even told you _straight out_ nothing would change even if some of our feelings did. Do you remember? Because I do, crystal clear. I also remember the way you dismissed it every darn time.”

“Wait a second.” Takahiro shakes his head. “You’ve known all this time… Oh, shit.”

Takahiro falls on his ass, elbows on his knees, head hanging against his chest. There’s a bubble of something sparkly and intoxicating building in his chest, smothering him. It takes a second for it to burst. Takahiro’s own ears can’t believe the sound he’s making.

He’s _laughing._ Guffawing, really. It’s so loud the sound startles him, but he can’t stop, even if his stomach hurts, even if tears are rolling down his face. He can’t breathe, and yet, laughter keeps coming out.

“Makki?” Oikawa’s voice is contained and worried. “Are you okay?”

“You _knew_ ,” Takahiro repeats, laughing again. Oikawa’s expression throws him into a fit of laughter that has him holding his middle and grimacing. “Oh my god, Oikawa, you knew all this time,” he says, breathlessly.

“Are you losing it? Because I’ll let you know, I can kick you unconscious if it’s necessary.”

Takahiro’s head falls back against the sofa, panting. “I know. Oh, damn. It feels good to laugh like this.”

“So,” Oikawa says, squinting, hands still pointing at Takahiro, “you’re done acting crazy?”

“Not sure.” Takahiro rests his cheek on his shoulder, stares up at his friend. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know what to do, and I was scared I was gonna lose you if I said something, and then… Iwaizumi’s a great guy,” he says with an honest smile.

Oikawa nods, wary. “He is. I– I love him very much, Makki.”

“I know you do.” Takahiro stares at Oikawa some more, relishing the emptiness in his chest, the clear path of tender love not tainted neither by pain nor jealousy. “I hope you know I’m extremely happy for you.”

Oikawa nods. His arms are at his sides, now, his fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t miss the fact you said you _were_ in love with me, by the way.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re Oikawa Tooru. Apparently there’s nothing you don’t miss.”

“I missed that you were falling in love with Matsukawa,” he says, turning the air unbreathable.

Takahiro licks his lips, tears his eyes from him. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Since not talking about it hasn’t worked for you, I’d advice a change of tactics.”

Takahiro can’t but snort at that. “You’re such a pompous idiot.”

“And a proud one, too.” When Takahiro stays silent, Oikawa sits in front of him and says, “So? I’ll have you know, Iwa-chan has been very worried about Matsun these past days.”

Takahiro wants to ask so badly, but he forces himself to say, “Did he tell you?”

Oikawa blinks slowly at him. “Tell me what?”

“About Issei.” Takahiro curses himself when Oikawa arches an eyebrow at the use of the given name. “About how he was—” There’s no way he’s finishing that sentence.

“Didn’t have to tell me,” Oikawa says, softly. “It was clear as day the second I met him.” Takahiro looks back at him. Oikawa must see the fear in his eyes, because he pats his shin and says, “I didn’t tell Iwa-chan. I’m not such an evil jerk.”

“You’re not evil.”

“Not denying the jerk part, I see.”

They chuckle at that. Oikawa sighs and crawls closer, until they are side to side, shoulder to shoulder. Oikawa leans against him, and they rest temple to temple. “I’ve missed you, Makki.”

Takahiro sniffles. “Me too. I made a mess of everything.”

“Only a bit. You should make up your mind and apologise to Matsun faster than you did to me, though.”

“Why are you assuming I’m the one at fault, here?”

“Aren’t you?”

Is he? “I’m not sure.”

“Well.” Oikawa snuggles closer. “Talking is a nice start at fixing things.”

They stay like that for a bit, letting silence fill all the days they’ve spent without talking to each other. There are so many things Takahiro wants to tell him, but Matsukawa has overtaken his mind and his thoughts. It seems so stupid, now. So obvious. He has used Oikawa and his unrequited love like a shield and a sword. Even if it’s clear when he looks back at it he wasn’t the only one playing the unrequited love card, Takahiro realises with a ping in his heart he’s the coward in this story. Matsukawa’s been brave enough to figure it out on his own and to put an end to it. He’s been brave enough to choose to step forward instead of staying still and safe and lonely.

Why would he choose Takahiro to do that with, he’s too scared to even consider.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mutters. Oikawa makes an agreeing sound.

Takahiro expects him to push the issue, but let it to Oikawa Tooru to know when to drop the topic. “There’s a rumor going around the lab about you becoming a professor.”

Butterflies fill Takahiro’s stomach. “Yeah. I’ll start next semester.”

“Are you leaving?” It’s small, almost childish, the way he asks it.

“Of course not. I’m just adding ten hours to my already packed working week.”

“Such a hard working guy you are.”

“Your tone offends me.”

Oikawa laughs and stands, announcing, “I’m gonna make dinner. Help me.”

While cooking, chopping and boiling, Takahiro talks about his research, about the teaching job. He tells Oikawa, “Did you know Kyoutani has a _boyfriend_?”

Oikawa smirks, nods. “Shigeru-chan.”

Takahiro’s speechless for about a minute after that. The prowess of this man. It’s a weapon and it should be banned by law. When Takahiro says as much, Oikawa laughs and points at the pans.

They don’t mention Matsukawa, although there’s a huge chunk of Takahiro’s life that exists around him, with him. They keep the conversation light, jumping from harmless topic to harmless topic. A ghost they both can see, but that they play at being sightless to.

It shouldn’t feel so wrong. It’s, after all, what Takahiro wants. A night of normalcy with Oikawa without any worry to taint it. A moment to forget the hollow in his chest has a name and a face, and that Takahiro might be too scared to fix it just yet.

 

 

There’s a text in his phone when Takahiro checks it once he waves Oikawa good-bye. The streets are fluffy white, empty and cold. Takahiro holds his phone tight, relishing seeing Matsukawa’s name on his screen. The text reads:

_I know you’ve figured it out already. You’re smart enough. I won’t pressure you. But don’t think for a second that I’ll just give up on you. Don’t know what you want, and I won’t lie, it scares the shit out of me that you might not want me, but I don’t care. You’re too fucking important to me to just vanish, Takahiro._

Takahiro tries to swallow the lump in his throat. There’s snow covering his screen, blurring the words. He stands there for so long he has to unlock his phone five times just to keep staring at the text.

After a bit, it vibrates between his fingers.

_I’d rather have you in my life as whatever you need me to be, than not have you at all._

A sob crashes against his lips. Takahiro covers his mouth with his hand, trying to keep it there, where it belongs. Matsukawa’s out there, putting himself last _once again_ , and Takahiro’s the one crying? Fuck this. Fuck him and the pain in his chest and that stupid cat, that has been hibernating since Takahiro left Matsukawa in the izakaya days ago.

Takahiro’s not even aware he’s moving until he runs at a corner, sliding on the snow and crashing against a wall. His shoulder hurts, but Takahiro barely registers the pain. He’s too occupied running for his life.  

 

 

Matsukawa’s cheeks are still red from his bath, his hair wet, his eyes wide. He looks soft and smells of home and when he opens the door, Takahiro can barely push out the words, that hard is he breathing.

“Takahiro? What are you—”

“You are a fucking martyr!” he yells, instead of jumping on top of Matsukawa and kissing the life out of him like he wants to do. Matsukawa gapes at him, speechless. “ _Whatever you need me to be_ ,” Takahiro quotes, mockingly. “Fuck that. What the hell do _you_ want, huh, Issei? ‘Cause the way I remember it, you didn’t fucking say!”

Matsukawa’s stare burns his already heated skin. Without a word, he grabs Takahiro by the arm and pulls him inside before closing the door. The apartment is warm. Takahiro pretends it’s its fault for the heat he feels creeping up his neck. He can’t bring himself to answer Matsukawa’s eyes, so he stares at his lips instead.

“Hiro,” Matuskawa whispers. Takahiro grits his teeth and forces his eyes to stay where they are. “Won’t you look at me?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Takahiro has to close his eyes when Matsukawa’s hands cup his face, pushing it slightly up. “Seriously? Can’t you tone the stubbornness down a bit?”

“No,” Takahiro says, when all he wants is doing as Matsukawa commands him. “You’ll trick me if I look at you and I wanna talk f—”

Matsukawa kisses him quiet, the bastard. Takahiro makes a strangled sound against his mouth, opening his eyes at the same time as he opens his mouth, inviting him in. There’s a gleam of victory in Matsukawa’s eyes that make Takahiro bite his tongue in retaliation.

They part but stay close enough for their breaths to mix. Takahiro’s eyes are glued to Matsukawa’s. There’s a low rumble in his chest, a mix of a purr and a groan of pleasure.

“Hi. Missed you.”

“Fuck you,” Takahiro answers without any heat. “You don’t play fair, Issei.”

Matsukawa frowns. “I think I played fairer than expected. I gave you space. I gave you time. I’d give you even more if that’s what you need.”

“And again with what I need!” Takahiro’s hands find Matsukawa’s wrists, keeping him where he’s touching Takahiro. “What about what _you_ need?”

The magical question, the one Matsukawa struggles with the most. Takahiro can see the trouble building in his eyes, can feel it in the way his fingers dig in his skin, looking for support.

Softer, Takahiro says, “You scared, Issei? Of me?”

“I’m scared of what I feel for you,” Matsukawa confesses, shaky, small. His eyes are on Takahiro’s chin, holding onto him hard enough to brand his skin. “The thought of falling in love scares the shit out of me.”

“Of us both,” Takahiro mutters back. His heart is racing in his chest. He bets it’s going as fast as Matsukawa’s. “It’s not the same, this time,” Takahiro says, putting words to what is clear as day in Matsukawa’s eyes, now darting back to his. Takahiro smiles, just a bit. “What? _I_ get it. You don’t need to look so surprised.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“It’s a great ass and we both know it.”

“It is,” Matsukawa breathes out. They are still holding onto each other, desperate and terrified, no matter how light they try to make their words sound. Takahiro can’t even bear the thought of letting go of Matsukawa’s hands. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do, now.”

“You could kiss me again.”

Matsukawa does, light and meaningful. They look at each other while their lips meet, a sharing of words that is as deep as they are unspoken. Takahiro breathes out a shaky breath and the kiss stops.

“Does this mean…” Matsukawa closes his eyes, unable to finish his plea.

Takahiro thinks of teasing him a bit more, of forcing him to say the words out loud, properly this time. But he can feel Matsukawa’s fingers tremble against his jaw, he can feel how tense and helpless his stance is. A single wrong word from Takahiro’s mouth could break him, this selfless, imposing man.

“Does this mean we can keep fucking? Yes.” Matsukawa grinds his teeth, tries to step back. Takahiro has to pull him to keep him in place. “Let me finish.” Matsukawa growls but does as told. His eyes are fierce when Takahiro answers his gaze, hoping his heart is pouring from them as it feels is pouring from every patch of bare skin. “Does this mean I’m scared of what I feel for you and that I’ll probably fuck up again? Yes. Does this mean that I want you too, Issei? Yes. Happy now?”

“I don’t only want you, Takahiro,” Matsukawa pulls him closer, kisses his mouth harsh, leans back. “It’s not only want what I feel.”

“I know,” Takahiro says, because he does. “I get it. I don’t… Look, I won’t say I’m in love with you, because I have no clue and because I’m confused and because I was sure I was in love with Oikawa like a week ago. But.” Takahiro kisses Matsukawa, soft and tender. “But I’ve never been this happy with anyone, ever. I get it, okay? Just let’s try whatever this is and see if we work. No pressure or labels or excuses.”

Matsukawa stares at him for a long, long second and then Takahiro’s being kissed so deeply he can feel it in his core. He digs his nails into Matsukawa’s wrist, lets him go when Matsukawa’s hands go to his back and his neck, gluing them together. They moan in sync, breathe each other. Takahiro feels Matsukawa’s heartbeat in his every vein.

“Not in love with Oikawa anymore?” Matsukawa asks between kisses. Takahiro’s drowning in them, so he needs a moment to answer.

“No. Not being for a while, I think. Fuck.” He goes to the tip of his toes, chasing Matsukawa’s mouth. It’s different, now that he can enjoy this however he wants. “Mmmmh, I missed this.”

“Only this?”

“I missed you,” Takahiro says stepping forward while Matsukawa steps back, following him through the apartment. They can’t keep their hands off each other. Matsukawa rips off Takahiro’s coat and throws it to the floor, he kisses Takahiro’s neck and then his ear and Takahiro moans against him, hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck, Hiro.”

“Yeah. That.”

Matsukawa’s laugh vibrates between them. “You want that?”

Takahiro leans back enough to look him in the eyes when he says, serious and rough, “I want you. I’ve wanted you all this time, Issei.”

“I thought you did,” Matsukawa whispers, unsure. “But I’ve been wrong before. I didn’t want to push.”

Takahiro bites Matsukawa’s lip. “You said you’d give it to me. Will you?”

“Now?” God, the rawness of his voice… Takahiro nods, glued to his mouth. Matsukawa kisses him, grabs his ass, pushes him up. Takahiro’s dizzy with need when his legs circle Matsukawa’s hips, their cocks grinding. “Say it.”

“I want you inside me,” Takahiro obliges, arching his back, pushing himself on Matsukawa’s hand. He swirls his hips, mimicking what he wants to happen. “Come on. Don’t you?”

“You know I do. You know I—” Matsukawa kisses him stupid. Takahiro moans, and moans again when Matsukawa takes a step, Takahiro still on him, and Takahiro’s back finds the wall.

“Shit, I love it when you manhandle me.”

“No kidding,” Matsukawa nibbles on his lips, down his neck. Takahiro’s hands are clutching his head and his shoulder with every bit of strength in his body. “I’ll tie you, some day.”

Takahiro whimpers. “Please do.”

Matsukawa grinds forward, his hips pining Takahiro to the wall, tearing long moans out of his mouth. The way he sucks his neck could almost be aggressive if Takahiro weren’t as desperate. He arches, tries to get closer, groans his frustration when Matsukawa keeps leaving his marks on him.

“Issei. Stop teasing me.”

“I never could do this,” he says in a rush against Takahiro’s skin, dejection covered by his harsh breathing. Takahiro stops moving, attention fully on Matsukawa’s words. “I always had to be extra careful about leaving any mark on you.”

The confession does something weird to Takahiro’s chest, to his belly. His hard cock is throbbing, his heart is beating in every muscle in his body, but when Matsukawa breathes him in, his mouth glued to his skin, his words surrounding them, there’s nothing else Takahiro can do but this.

It’s a different kind of hug, what with both of them painfully aroused and Takahiro’s legs around Matsukawa’s hips, but it’s a hug of absolute tenderness Takahiro doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but that feels as right as it does smothering.  

He doesn’t think about it. He holds Matsukawa close, close to his neck, still wet with his care, close to his chest, where the hole is now filled, the cat satiated and happy. Takahiro kisses Matsukawa’s hair and hugs him tight enough his arms burn.

“Ah, Issei,” the words come out, unbidden, “the things you do to my heart.”

There’s a warm rush of breath against his skin. Matsukawa doesn’t say anything, but after a moment he copies him, holding him even tighter. Takahiro caresses his scalp, keeps him close and tangled. His body is a cage and Matsukawa’s the missing pieces he’s been trying to protect for months.

“I feel you can break my heart worse than Iwaizumi ever did,” Matsukawa whispers, so true, so lost. Takahiro will break his arms if that’s what it takes to embrace him like this forever.

“I know.” Takahiro nuzzles his hair. “I also know, if it ever comes to it, you’ll surely break mine in ways Oikawa never could.”

To his collarbone, Matsukawa mutters, _fuck_ , and there they stay, anchored to one another. Fear seems to linger over their skins, like dust glued to their sweat, but Takahiro has given fear enough of his time to let it win now.

“Take me to bed?” It’s a plea, an offer.

Matsukawa drinks it all, glued still to Takahiro’s skin, drinking him in, too. Takahiro can’t keep his lips from drawing patterns on Matsukawa’s temple.

Without a word, he’s dragged off the wall and carried to the bedroom. The warm of Matsukawa’s breath against his neck tickles him. Reminds him of Matsukawa’s silent pain, of the words that have escaped the prison they’ve been hidden in all these time. Takahiro shudders. He wants to erase that pain, put something nicer in its place.

Matsukawa throws Takahiro on the bed, follows him right after. Arms and legs open to receive him, tangle around him, push him closer. Matsukawa’s mouth is demanding when it closes over Takahiro’s. It eats every sound Takahiro manages to make, his body holding him still, his chest teaching Takahiro’s how to move under him.

They’ve never touched like this. As if it were the need of bearing themselves and merging their cores what’s driving their actions and not physical release. As if this trascens what they’ve done until now, even when they’ve given themselves to each other without a second doubt in numerous occasions.

Takahiro pulls from Matsukawa’s clothes, Matsukawa offers the same treatment. Shirts are teared, pants stripped off. Somehow their lips stay glued for most of it, the air from each other’s lungs carrying more oxygen than the air of the room.

“Issei,” Takahiro gasps when Matsukawa opens his legs and finds his place there. “I want you.”

“I’ve dreamt of this,” Matsukawa says in a trance, hips rocking shallowly, their hard cocks brushing.

“Of me?”

“Of you. Of having you.” To his lips, he whispers, “Of you wanting me so bad you couldn’t think.”

“Welcome to your dreams, then.” Takahiro moans, grabs the sheets, pushes himself up. “Shit, Issei, where’s the lube?”

Matsukawa finds the lube and a condom. Takahiro stares at him, sitting between his legs, while he opens the bottle and smears the lube in his fingers, down Takahiro’s legs and into his ass. He looks like a god of dark promises and sexual fantasies. Takahiro’s brain is a mist of pleasure when he says, “You look so fucking good.”

Matsukawa’s smile is dangerous. “Same back at you. Open your legs.”

Takahiro does, eyes locked on Matsukawa’s expression. Shit, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s seen in days. And even better when Matsukawa puts his fingers on his cleft, prodding his entrance, spreading the lube. Takahiro breathes in so loudly it scares him.

“You okay?”

“I _really_ want you,” he says in a rush, all the air in his lungs going out with that confession.

Matsukawa grins. Fuck. He needs to take a picture of that smile because, dammit, it makes his chest hurt and his belly clench.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Takahiro gasps, arching himself like a bow off the bed when Matsukawa’s finger enters him.

Matsukawa’s care is tantalizing. He takes forever before he puts another finger in, completely ignoring Takahiro’s cock or Takahiro’s mouth. The caress of his gaze is hot on his skin, but nothing compared to what Takahiro really wants. When the third finger breaches in him, Takahiro has had enough.

“Do it. Fucking do me already.”

“So impatient.”

Takahiro snorts. Matsukawa’s cock is so wet and so hard Takahiro can see it throbbing from where he lays. He licks his lips, puts his knees to his chest. The sound Matsukawa makes at that is exhilarating.

“Come here,” Takahiro pleads.

Matsukawa looks at how his fingers bury in him for a moment before he takes them out, puts the condom on, lubes himself up. Takahiro’s mouth is open and waiting when Matsukawa lays on top of him again, tongue mimicking what his cock’s about to do. Takahiro holds him close, accommodates him. The feeling of Matsukawa’s cock pressing his entrance leaves him lightheaded.

“You okay?”

“Fuck yes. Fuck me already.”

Matsukawa kisses him silent, presses further. Takahiro moans in his mouth, tries to relax. Matsukawa pulls out, thrusts slightly in, seeking entrance. Every time he goes deeper and deeper, harder and harsher. Takahiro’s moaning so loud and so much their kiss doesn’t lock. There are stars in his eyes and his chest when, with a last thrust, Matsukawa buries himself into the hilt.

“Issei.” Takahiro’s legs close on his ass, urging him closer. Matsukawa’s breathing hard on his neck, still and waiting. Takahiro can feel his arms tremble where they rest at his sides. He leaves a kiss on his neck, on his ear, on his cheek. He feels so full and so good he’s scared to break the moment, but there are bubbles of need in his stomach screaming for attention. “Issei, you can move.”

“You sure?”

The sound that comes out of Takahiro’s mouth is a mix of exasperated frustration and badly contained pleasure. Matsukawa kisses him and, slowly, pulls out just to drive back in hard enough to make Takahiro roll his eyes. “Fuck, yes.”

“You like it hard?”

“You know I do.”

Matsukawa bites his neck and thrust in him again, changing the angle slightly. Takahiro can’t breathe when he does it again and again, hitting all the right places, fucking him like there’s no tomorrow. Takahiro clings onto him, grabbing whatever he can. When Matsukawa groans, “Fuck, Hiro, you feel so fucking good. So tight. Are you—?”, Takahiro grabs his hand and holds for dear life, squeezing reassuringly.

Matsukawa doesn’t ask again, but he makes the best sounds, the most amazing remarks. Takahiro can only manage sounds of pure pleasure, Matsukawa’s name, moans that become whimpers and whimpers that become cries. His body feels full and used and yet cared for, attended beyond its needs.

Their hands remain together, fingers tangled. Matsukawa grabs his hip with his other hand, thumbing his hip bone, angling him to drive home with more precision. Takahiro arches, anchored by his hands. In the midst of pleasure, Takahiro has the stupidest thought. Their bodies were made to be together, just like this. It’s impossible to think otherwise, given how good Matsukawa feels inside of him.

“I’m close.”

“Me too,” Takahiro gasps, stroking himself. He stares up at Matsukawa, opens his mouth in silent demand. They kiss, Takahiro’s hand going faster on his cock while Matsukawa speeds up in him. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa moans on his lips. “Come on me.”

It takes Takahiro two more thrusts, perfectly aligned, to come with a silent cry in the shape of Issei’s name. He shots hot on his chest, on Matsukawa’s chest, tightening around Matsukawa’s cock. Coming with him inside, still pounding in mad rush, makes his orgasm feel like a wave crashing on him and sending him into space.

He’s still flying through it when Matsukawa groans and comes himself, collapsing on top of Takahiro after a long groan.

Their sweat mingles. There’s a nice soreness already making itself known on Takahiro’s inner thighs. He blinks, trying to regain full sight. His hand is still caged under Matsukawa’s.

“That was—”

“Amazing,” Takahiro finishes for him, chuckling. “We make fireworks blow when we fuck.”

Matsukawa laughs at that, breathless. “Yes, we do. I’m crushing you.”

“You are, but I like feeling crushed and smothered very much.”

Takahiro kisses the side of his head. Matsukawa needs another minute before he rolls over, dragging Takahiro’s arm with him. He realizes then their hands are still clasped together, if his expression has anything to do with it. There’s a blush on his cheeks when he bends forward, kisses Takahiro’s knuckles and lets go. Takahiro’s heart is in his throat, silently bursting with the gesture.

Matsukawa’s eyes are on the floor when he stands and throws the condom, going then to the bathroom for what Takahiro assumes —and hopes— is a washtowel.

The thought of moving crosses Takahiro’s mind, but his muscles don’t cooperate. He lays there like a starfish, feeling the cold kiss of the winter air on his skin but unable to snuggle under the blankets. The ceiling is a curtain of falling snow, the streetlights painting it around the room. It’s soothing. Takahiro’s half asleep by the time Matsukawa makes it back into the bed, pants on and towel at hand.

“Want me to wash you?”

“Please.”

Takahiro stares at him while Matsukawa cleans Takahiro’s chest. The silence is charged and yet fitting. Takahiro could fall in love with their silences, even when he’s already half in love with everything else.

In a whisper, he says, “I think I’m falling in love with you, Issei.”

Matsukawa stops, stilling for so long he blends with the shadows of the room. Takahiro can feel his heart beating steadily in his chest, its strength warming the towel and Takahiro’s skin.

“Too much?” he asks after a bit, amused.

Matsukawa has to clear his throat before he answers, “I wasn’t expecting that. I thought…”

“You thought you were the only one who cared?”

“I know you care. I’ve known since the very beginning.”

Takahiro takes the towel, throws it to the floor and pulls Matsukawa on the bed next to him. They snuggle under the covers, but still Matsukawa can’t answer his gaze. Takahiro’s too content and happy to care about anything else, so he glues himself to Matsukawa’s body, arm over his waist, leg over his.

With his face over his chest, eyes closed, Takahiro mutters, “You don’t have to fret. I won’t tell.”

Although he can’t see Matsukawa’s expression, he knows exactly how he looks, how the smile pulls from his lips, how his eyes narrow in pleased amusement.

“What is it that you won’t tell?”

Takahiro kisses his shoulder. “That you’re in love with your best friend.”

Matsukawa laughs, holds him tight, breathes out a relieved breath. Takahiro falls asleep to the sound of, “Yeah. I am. Badly,” and he dreams of wicked grins and night-long hugs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ೕ(⁍̴̀◊⁍̴́ฅ)
> 
> do i love these boys? i love these boys! the epilogue will be a short chapter, because i need Hanamaki Takahiro to be as sappy as he deserves.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND FINALLY, THE SAPPY EPILOGUE. I shouldn't be allowed to write sappy things, really.

Christmas isn’t something Takahiro has ever had any interest in, nor has he ever concerned himself with. The loud songs and the stupid looking dude in a red pajamas in his flying sled. It’s not something Takahiro actually understands.

He gets the appeal, though. Matsukawa decorating their shoe-box-sized apartment with colorful lights, the little tree they bought standing in a corner, decorated with a ton of stupid things Takahiro has collected: action figures, bottle caps from their favorite beers, little pictures of every movie they’ve watched. It would look ridiculous if it weren’t so… theirs.

Matsukawa’s even wearing a Christmas sweater. An especially hideous one. It’s astonishingly fitting, how nerdy he looks. Takahiro stares at him while Matsukawa puts up the last of the decorations, and throws a popcorn into his mouth.

“You could help.”

“You’re doing great on your own.”

Matsukawa chuckles, finally managing to glue the lights to the wall. “And now,” he announces with a big smile, “the show begins.”

He turns the switch on. They both say in chorus, “Oooohhh.”

Takahiro eats another fist of popcorn. “Pretty.”

“It looks quite eclectic, don’t you think?”

“That a bad thing?” Takahiro asks up, up, up. Matsukawa’s hands are on his hips, lip between his teeth. He looks delicious.

“I think it’s a great thing. It fits us.”

They smile at each other like two idiots. Takahiro doesn’t like Christmas, but when Matsukawa sits in front of him and grabs a bunch of popcorns, the light paints him beautifully. A piece of inherent happiness that taints his cheeks red, the blues and the pinks and the yellows and the greens just changing its hue. Takahiro has trouble taking his eyes off him.

When Matsukawa leans forward and steals a kiss, he hums in tune with the carols playing on the computer, eyes still open. There’s nothing new about the kiss, the touch of their lips known and familiar. Takahiro’s heart leaps anyway, like it does every time they touch, every time Takahiro’s mind clicks and he realizes Matsukawa is here, with him, for the long haul.

“Are you singing carols?”

“You’re just imagining things.”

Matsukawa leans back with a snort, snatching a popcorn. They both look at the display of colors and decorations, the sky outside their window clear although the weather channel has announced snow for later tonight.

“I like it.”

“Fitting for our first house-party,” Takahiro agrees. Matsukawa arches an eyebrow at him, at which Takahiro just shrugs, nonchalant. “What? I can be sappy when I want to be.”

“ _When_ you want to be?” Matsukawa grins. Takahiro’s body tenses all over, and he has to tell himself to stay put and pretend to be cool and unaffected. That damn smile. “You’re sappy half of the time you’re breathing.”

“You have no way of knowing that’s not exactly the amount of time I _want_ to be sappy.”

Matsukawa leans forward, brushing their noses. There’s a low whining sound coming out of Takahiro’s throat, and it’s embarrassing. Matsukawa’s smile is one of victory and smugness.

“Shut up,” Takahiro says, breathless. He melts when Matsukawa closes the distance between them, touching his lips, kissing him softly through his smile. “You’re a jerk.”

“And you love me,” Matsukawa answers before deepening the kiss.

Takahiro moves in a daze, hands on Matsukawa’s shoulders, straddling his crossed legs. There’s an intoxicating power on being on top of Matsukawa like this, being the one who has to bend down to kiss the sense out of him. Takahiro breathes in, deeply, trying to engrave this moment to memory.

He does love him. Madly.

There’s a content smile on Matsukawa’s stupid face when he leans back. It makes Takahiro’s chest constrict and hurt, how simple it looks, how perfect it feels. With his thumbs caressing Matsukawa’s cheeks, Takahiro mutters, “God, you’re beautiful. I hate it.”

“Beautiful, huh. Are you having a bit of a stroke?”

“I’m having a lot of things, none of them happening around my brain, just saying.”

“That’s not something new.”

“Fuck off.” But Takahiro kisses him again, not sure he’s had enough of that smile plastered on his lips. “Why did we invite everyone again?”

“Because we are amazing friends.”

“Christmas is a holiday for couples,” Takahiro complains, still kissing him.

“Not in the west, it isn’t. It’s a holiday for family.”

This damn man. He turns Takahiro’s heart into a puddle of feelings and sappiness. “Smart-ass.”

Matsukawa’s arms circle his waist, keeping him on his lap. With a sloppy kiss on Takahiro’s mouth, he says, “I love you, Hanamaki Takahiro.”

“Oh, you think?” Takhairo makes a show of studying their surrounding, the apartment as cozy as it is tiny. “Would have been a bummer otherwise, since we just moved in together.”

“Awkward.” Matsukawa bites Takahiro’s chin.

“Cringy.”

“I think you meant _clingy_.”

“Didn’t know we were describing you.”

In retaliation, Matsukawa pins Takahiro to the ground and kisses him until thoughts are just a concept, as foreign to Takahiro as the oceans on Jupiter’s moon. If Takahiro’s arms find their way around Matsukawa’s neck and push him closer, or if his legs circle Matsukawa’s hips and lock him against his, well. Who can blame Takahiro for being clingy, too, when Matsukawa feels so good against him, when his chest fills with joy and wonder every time Matsukawa’s is pressed against it?

Matsukawa leans back after a while, hands on the sides Takahiro’s head. There’s a haze in Takahiro’s mind, a tightness at his underbelly and the taste of Matsukawa’s love in his mouth. He’s pretty sure there are stars shining in his eyes.

“Stop looking at me like you wanna eat me,” Matsukawa says, amused, confirming Takahiro’s thoughts. Takahiro, always the teaser, arches his back, making their crotches collide. Matsukawa hisses. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Hiro.”

“Oh?” Takahiro does it again. At Matsukawa’s frustrated groan, he laughs. “Still not regretting inviting everyone?”

“You’re gonna pay for this,” Matsukawa warns right before kissing the sense out of Takahiro. Things are getting interesting again when there’s a loud knock at the door.

Pressing his forehead to Takahiro’s, Matsukawa mutters, “Damn. You’re a bad influence on me.”

It shouldn’t make Takahiro as happy as it does, hearing that. His smile tastes sweet, feels as big as small is their apartment. Oikawa knocks again, loudly calling their names, and something soothing settles in Takahiro’s heart.

He grabs Matsukawa’s face, keeping him in place for a second longer. When Matsukawa answers his gaze, Takahiro whispers, “I love you, Issei.”

Matsukawa’s smile is brighter than the Christmas lights, brighter than the sun lighting the city covered in snow. It’s warm, and it’s perfect and it’s the exact image that comes to mind when Takahiro thinks of home.

“Right back at you.”

Yeah, Takahiro thinks when their friends fill their home and turn the small apartment into a cramped box, this is exactly what home is. Matsukawa smiling and laughing with Iwaizumi, at Kyoutani, at Oikawa and his nonsense. Matsukawa being caring, and a smart-ass, and a little shit when he tricks Takahiro into cooking _and_ cleaning the dishes. Matsukawa’s voice echoing through the apartment, followed by that of their friends.

Elbows deep on hot water, Takahiro stares past the small counter separating the kitchen from the living room. There’s tightness around his mouth, the smile barely contained. The christmas decorations are the perfect frame for the canvas that is this moment. Takahiro chokes on the sappiness he has to bite down, and the tears of knowing himself such a lucky bastard.

Matsukawa looks up, then, as if sensing Takahiro’s emotions. Probably his sappiness radar, firing its alarms up.

Matsukawa’s smile is tender, knowing.

Yeah. Takahiro has finally found it.

He’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (੭ु´･ω･`)੭ु⁾⁾
> 
> WELL, THIS IS THE END, MY FRIENDS. I just want to thank you all so much for reading, and commenting and kudoing and being so amazing. I hope you loved this little story as much as I do.


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